


And It Is Always 1895

by umqra1895



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Time Travel, Weeping Angels - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umqra1895/pseuds/umqra1895
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is all to excited to take on an impossible case involving an unaging man in a mysterious box, but as he and John get more entangled in their case, they realize their own lives are in danger of being turned upside-down. Can they avoid the Doctor's predictions and maintain their lives in the 21st century, or will they be forced to start their lives over in 1895 where they "belong"?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John slammed the door behind him, hoping the loud noise would at least inspire Sherlock to look up from where he sat, but he didn’t even bother a glance, staying absorbed in the newspaper. John stomped up to his chair and snatched the newspaper away. “Brilliant, this has got to be a record! We should really start a tally on the wall next to your bloody gunshot smiley face!”

Sherlock looked up at him calmly, feigning ignorance. “I assure you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John gripped the arms of Sherlock’s chair, leaning in toward him. “You killed Ruby’s dog! It’s dead, Sherlock!”

Sherlock stood up, irritably brushing John off. “It wasn’t intentional. I needed a Bichon Frise and Ruby had one readily available.”

“Why on earth did you need a Bichon Frise?!”

“For an experiment, which, I’ll have you know, saved a man’s life. Where’s that tea I made?”

John looked at the mantel, where a mug of congealing cold tea was sitting, next to a large jar of rat poison. Maybe he should just move out. He could only vaguely remember the days where things were sane. Sane and boring, a small voice in John’s head reminded him. He shoved the thought away angrily. “Well, now the dog’s dead and Ruby’s refusing to talk to me. Eleven. I think this is eleven women that have sent me packing, due in some way to you.”

“Oh, John, that’s hardly fair. I never even met that neurotic secretary.” Sherlock scratched his head, looking absently around the kitchen. It was nearing three in the afternoon, but he was still lounging around in a bathrobe and pyjamas.

John took a deep breath. He would not punch Sherlock. He would talk this out rationally. “The point is, could you lay off a bit? If you’re never going to approve of any of the women I date, keep out of it!”

“It’s not my fault you date dull women,” Sherlock said, opening the spice cabinet. “Do we have any cumin?”

“What on earth d’you—I don’t date dull women! None of them is ever going to live up to the Glorious Intellect of Sherlock Holmes, you know. One genius is more than enough to deal with.” Sherlock smiled a bit at this.

“Where’s that tea?” Sherlock muttered.

John impatiently grabbed the mug. He didn’t feel as if they’d resolved the conversation quite in the way he wanted, but he had gotten his point across, at the very least. John slid the mug across the counter to Sherlock a bit too vigorously. Sherlock fumbled to catch it a second too late and it tipped and spilled down his shirt.

“God—sorry,” John mumbled, looking for a dishrag.

Sherlock shrugged off his robe and peeled off the wet shirt, then looked anxiously in the mug. “Thank God, there’s some left.”

John felt himself redden as Sherlock peeled off his shirt. Why? There was nothing to be embarrassed about. Still, he could feel his ears growing hot. He averted his eyes and snatched up the newspaper he’d just wrenched away from Sherlock, then settled in his chair. He could hear Sherlock in the kitchen, stirring something. Cumin in the cold tea, most bloody likely. He glanced up at Sherlock a couple times, his foot jiggling.

“Aren’t you going to put a shirt on?”

Sherlock looked down at himself. “Why?”

“It just…it seems uncomfortable. Aren’t you cold?”

“No. I’m not uncomfortable, John.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. What an asshole. “Are you?”

“No! Do what you want. Forget it.” John buried his face in the newspaper again, flustered. The sight of his flatmate shirtless shouldn’t bother him. And it wasn’t that that bothered him. It was the fact that John couldn’t help but glance up every now and then and notice and admire the lines of Sherlock’s torso, the curve of bone at his hips, the small of his back, how pale he was—there was nothing wrong with noticing, John told himself.

The more he thought about it, though, the more flustered he became, and found that he couldn’t retain any words he was reading in the paper.  
He could hear Sherlock sitting across from him, and he could smell the cumin and tea quite strongly now. “I hope you’re not going to drink that,” John said from behind the paper.

“Not unless it becomes necessary. It’s an experiment I’ve had on the backburner for a while. I need something so I don’t completely languish away in stagnation.”

John snorted at his overdramatic take on the recent lag in cases and scanned the paper. “Another police disappearance. That’s…three this month?” He looked up from the paper expectantly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’s still going on? Isn’t it obvious? They’re all dirty cops. They’re getting paid to disappear. Dull.”

John turned back to the paper, disappointed. He wanted a case as much as Sherlock did, otherwise he was stuck arguing about dead dogs and spilling tea.

When the buzz came at the door, John leapt up. “Client?” He flung open the door to the flat. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, put a shirt on!”

John returned with an elderly gentleman, who looked around the flat warily before sitting in the chair John offered him.  
“Sherlock?”

Sherlock returned fully dressed; how he’d managed it so fast was beyond John. “This is Duncan—what was your last name?”

“Reynolds, young man. The second. So you’re Sherlock Holmes,” he said, looking up.

Sherlock paced in front of him. “My reputation precedes me,” he said, a bit smugly, John thought.

“I hear you’re the best, which is why I came to you. You’re going to tell me I’m crazy…but I swear I’m not.”

“You don’t display any signs of mental illness,” Sherlock said, sitting across from him, steepling his fingers. John pulled up a chair next to them, grabbing a spare bit of paper to make notes; Sherlock never bothered with such “trivialities,” but John found notes helpful.

“That’s a compliment, coming from him,” John assured Duncan. “Go on, it’s all right.”

Duncan looked anxiously between the two men. “I have to tell you, first, about when I was a boy during the Blitz. The air raid sirens went off while I was delivering newspapers—I was late getting home, and the streets were completely empty. Except for one man, running down the street. He waved at me and smiled, like nothing was wrong. I was terrified that, somehow, he was a Nazi, but he wasn’t dressed like a soldier—anyway, he grabbed my hand and told me to run and to not turn around. I don’t know what was chasing us, I only caught glimpses…but I think that man saved my life. I got home and he disappeared. Then, last week, I saw the man again. I knew it was him, he even had the same outfit on. And he hadn’t aged at all!”

John frowned and looked up from his notes. The man was completely in earnest, and Sherlock was leaning forward, listening with interest.

“He never told me his name or anything…but I need to know how this is possible. That’s why I’m hiring you,” Duncan finished, swallowing.

John bit back a laugh. It was ludicrous; a man’s faulty memory, surely. He waited for Sherlock to turn the man away, but Sherlock interlaced his fingers and asked, “How old were you during the Blitz?”

“Eleven. And there’s one more thing: when I saw him last week, he’d just stepped out of this blue police box: the old-fashioned kind that you don’t see any more…I don’t know if that’s useful at all…”

“A police call box? Aren’t those all torn down now?” John asked.

“Yes, decommissioned and torn down years ago! I hadn’t seen one in ages,” Duncan said.

Sherlock sat back in his chair. “I’ll take the case.”

John raised his eyebrows, but Duncan looked relieved. “Th-thank you! Oh, thank you, sir!”

“We’ll need a description of him, as accurate as you can make it,” Sherlock said.

Duncan began rattling one off. “He had a ridiculous haircut, all floppy on one side, and brown. Youngish, looked to be in his late twenties both then and now. His face was all forehead and chin, and deep-set eyes. Bowtie, tweed jacket, very thin trousers, funny little boots and red braces. And he liked to talk very, very fast…does that help?”

“Not in the slightest. Not now anyway. Where were you when you saw this ‘police box’?”

“Near Portobello Road, on some side street close to the park. And the box was just…there on the sidewalk.”

Sherlock frowned. “There’s not a police box on Portobello Road.”

“I know! But there was last week. Came out of nowhere, it did. And disappeared just as suddenly! I went back a few hours later and it was gone.”  
“Did you get a photograph of it?” Sherlock asked.

Duncan shook his head mournfully. “Why would somebody put a box on the sidewalk and move it a couple hours later?”

“Did you see the box at all that night of the Blitz?” John asked. As absurd as the story was, he found himself becoming engrossed.

Duncan scrunched up his eyes. “Not that I recall. It wasn’t such an unusual sight back then. They were all over. There might’ve been one…”  
“You said you ‘caught glimpses’ of what was chasing you. Describe it.”

“Do you have any paper? It might be easier if I drew it for you.”

John tore a sheet of paper from his notebook and passed over, then watched as the old man sketched out a creature with tusks and flat, glassy eyes. It was a good drawing, but the creature looked like some fantastical monster. As Duncan drew, he explained, “It was eight feet tall, more or less? The skin, here and around here, was grayish, with blue patches here…there was a sort of sheen to the skin.”

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. “That looks like some kind of…alien.”

“But that’s what I saw,” Duncan insisted. “I know I did.”

John thought back to the “hound” from Baskerville. They’d had experience with scary beasts people “saw” before.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said after a moment’s pause. “Leave your information with John. We’ll be in touch.” He rose, taking the drawing, and without a backwards glance disappeared to his room.

“He does that,” John said apologetically. “But don’t worry, if Sherlock’s taken your case, he’ll solve it. You’re in good hands.”

Once John had collected Duncan’s contact information and sent him on his way, he knocked on Sherlock’s bedroom door, but Sherlock burst it open and strode past him before he could finished knocking.

“Aliens! Finally, something fun to do!” He looked back at John as if noticing him for the first time. “Did you want something?”

“Yes. Aliens. Aliens, Sherlock. You can’t think…I mean obviously this man is a bit mad, right?”

“No—no he’s not. People who are mad don’t even consider the posiblity that they’re mad. This—OH!” he spun and clapped his hands. “THIS will be fun. Aliens? Mystery boxes? Unaging, bow-tie wearing immortals? Christmas!”

“And you’ve gone round the bend now too—brilliant. I’ll visit you at the asylum.”

“Don’t be foolish—you’ll be admitted right along with me!” He tossed John his coat. “Come on John! There are aliens to catch!”


	2. Chapter 2

The search at Notting Hill was fruitless. Sherlock texted a city maintenance contact to see if any police boxes had been sent or relocated to the area, or if he'd heard of any other reports concerning police boxes, with no luck.

He spent the next week alerting the homeless network, giving them a description of the bowtied man and the blue box. For days there was nothing, then one day Sherlock came home with a bounce in his step.

"Apparently he's called 'The Doctor,'" Sherlock said, bursting through the door.

John frowned. "Who, our ageless police box man? 'The Doctor?' That sounds like a drug dealer. Maybe Duncan was drugged. That would explain how Duncan saw…what he saw," he ventured.

"11-year-old boy, scared witless in a war zone and running for his life? Unlikely," Sherlock muttered.

"Duncan could just be senile," John said. It seemed to John the most likely solution. Not elaborate or exciting, perhaps, but plausible. "Or maybe he has a faulty memory."

"He's a very lucid man, and well-to-do,  _respected_ , going by his dress, stature, name, and the way he looked around our untidy flat in distaste, do you remember?" Sherlock paced back and forth. "And he wouldn't come to me if he'd seen someone who simply reminded him of the man he saw during the Blitz.  _Something_  convinced him without a doubt that this was the same man he'd seen sixty years ago. No, John, there's something to this."

"A vague name's not much to go on," John pointed out.

The case had already consumed Sherlock, it was clear. He continued to fervently pace back and forth, tapping his fingers together. "There was another name that I heard, but I can't figure out the significance. My research has turned up nothing."

"Which name?"

"Torchwood."

"Torchwood," John repeated. "What do you think that means?"

Sherlock finally stopped pacing. "Too early to say." He disappeared to his room, murmuring to himself.

John pulled up his laptop and absently searched The Doctor's name. After numerous scrolls of medical websites, he stopped.

"Sherlock!" He called.

The organization's webpage was an obnoxious, low-budget website, with unbearable gifs and a silly acronym-"London Investigation 'N Detective Agency"—but there were dozens of images of the blue police box, not only from photographs, but from paintings, stretching back throughout history.

"It looks like a crackpot website, but it can't be a coincidence," John murmured, leaning back as Sherlock took the laptop from him to examine more closely. "They have a whole page dedicated to that police box, and a whole other page dedicated to some person they call 'The Doctor.'"

Sherlock clicked on the page and squinted at some blurry photographs. Did crackpots simply refuse to focus their camera lenses when they took photos? "This isn't the same man. He doesn't fit Duncan's description," Sherlock said.

"On the website it says this Doctor person…changes his face or something. But that doesn't explain why the man Duncan saw looked the same 60 years later…and it's impossible."

"Changes his face? You mean a different man takes on the persona of the Doctor?"

"They don't know, or it doesn't say here," John said, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder to look at the screen once more. "It hasn't been updated in years."

Sherlock looked at the publishing name at the bottom of the website. "Looks like we'll be paying a visit to Mr. Elton Pope."

"Oh, bored enough to pay him a visit personally instead of sending your sniffer dog out?" John asked dryly.

Sherlock ignored him, and irritably typed the website number into his phone.

Elton Pope had urged Sherlock not to bother trying to find the Doctor, but he'd agreed to meet John and Sherlock at his flat the following Saturday.

They were greeted by Elton, a man in his early 30s, with very blonde hair and slight bug-eyes after John rang the doorbell. He looked between the two expectantly. "Is one of you Sherlock Holmes, then?"

"I am, and this is my colleague John Watson."

Elton welcomed them inside and led them to the kitchen, chattering the whole way. "I was really surprised when you called—the LINDA page hasn't had any hits in ages. I've considered taking it down, but I thought it would be better to leave it up so people would know what can happen when you go out looking for the Doctor. He's wonderful, of course he is, but I think he's almost too…big for humans to be around. His life is too dangerous…did you watch my vlogs?"

"Too big for humans to be around? You're saying he  _isn't_  human?"

"Of course not." Elton poured himself a cup of tea. "He's an alien."

John gave Sherlock a sideways look. Sherlok kept his face stoic as he asked, "Of course. Where from?"

"Dunno," Elton shrugged. "I don't even know what kind of alien he  _is_. But he's alien, definitely. Word on the street is he has two hearts."

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk a bit at this. "Both in the chest cavity?"

"I assume so. Look, maybe it'll be easier if I told you my story. What happened with me and the Doctor, I mean."

"We watched the vlogs," Sherlock interjected. He and John and spent an evening watching them, although John had cracked multiple jokes as Sherlock tried to take notes. "Tell me, how and why does this Doctor change his face?"

"I don't have that worked out yet. LINDA was working on theories…why do you want to know about him?"

"You already know that I'm a detective. I was hired to, obviously. You're not the only one who has had run-ins with the…man."

"I don't know if you can  _find_  the Doctor, though. I mean, LINDA tried the whole detective thing, but I ran into the Doctor by pure chance. Maybe the same will happen to you."

"I have a bit more experience than the 'London Investigation 'N Detective Agency.'" Sherlock said the name with derision.

"You'd have to be more than incredible to find this man," Elton said.

Sherlock was beginning to smile wider now, and John rolled his eyes. "Here we go…"

"Good thing I  _am_. Taking you for example…"

"Sherlock. Do you really need to do this?" John muttered, rubbing his thumb between his eyes, but Sherlock barreled on.

"You have two cats, you're left handed, judging by your fingernails, mild OCD, your right thumb says you play the flute, quite often, although that's no indicatior of how good you are, however, that stack of classical music in the corner would tend to support the idea that you're rather skilled at it. You've lived in an old, creaky house most of your life, though not this one. You don't know how to properly hold a writing utensil, your love life exists but lacks quite a bit in the physical department, and you had eggs for breakfast this morning. Do you want me to go on?"

Elton sat, stunned as they aways did, before finally spluttering, "How-how did you—"

"Don't. Really," John interrupted. "Now, in your vlog…you show your girlfriend, Ursula?"

John had to ask. It had been the most absurd thing he'd ever seen. This man had held up a piece of tarmac and a woman's face was stuck through it. It was a good video trick, John granted him that, but it was so laughably ridiculous that it had to be fraudulent.

"Ursula, yeah! My girlfriend. Want to meet her?" Elton's face had brightened.

John and Sherlock exchanged glances as Elton led them upstairs. "No photos. I want my love life kept private, thanks." He knocked on his bedroom door. "Ursula, love, we've got guests. A detective a…erm…doctor."

A high, husky voice emitted from the other side of the door. "What? Now?! I'm a mess, they can't see me like this!"

"Don't be silly, sweetheart!" Elton opened the door to an apparently empty room. There was a square of concrete propped up against the window, which didn't look unusual in the least until Elton picked it up and turned it around to reveal a living human face stuck inside. "Meet Ursula!"

John stared, agape. "That…that is not possible."

Even Sherlock was dumbstruck. When he finally regained use of his voice, he held out his hands tentatively. "Uh—may I?"

"Go ahead, then," Ursula said, looking the detective up and down curiously. Elton handed her over, and Sherlock ran his hands along the corners and back, searching for some sort of mechanism that would allow the oddity to be explained.

"You see, Mr. Holmes. There are thigns far stranger than we ever imagined out there. And here! This is the kind of thing that happens when you run with the Doctor," Elton said.

"I can see why you warned us to keep away, then," John said, rubbing his eyes to make sure he was seeing Ursula correctly.

Sherlock's touch elicited some girlish laughter from the slab before Ursula scolded, "Watch it! That tickles."

Sherlock exchanged a look with John that equal parts incredulous, shocked, and amused. "It's a magic trick, then…it must be."

"It's not. This is all me. It's not such a bad existence, you'd be surprised." She looked adoringly at Elton. "And I have him."

Elton beamed. "You know, if it wasn't for the Doctor, we never would've met."

Sherlocked looked at the two of them, baffled. "But…but how do you…breathe?"

"…Eat?" John said simultaneously.

"We tried asking the doctor, but most of what he said goes right over our heads. He tends to jabber pretty quick," Elton said, then looked at Sherlock. "Bit like you."

Sherlock quirked a half smile, then handed Urusla back over to Elton and rubbed his hands together. "What can you tell me about the police box? Is it is his? How does he move it around?"

"It's his time machine, don't you know? That's how he travels around!"

John sucked in a large breath and sunk into Elton's chair. It was all too much, too crazy.

"Time machine. Time travel's impossible, mathematically, they've practically proven it," Sherlock sputtered.

"Tell that to him, he seems to have it sorted," Elton said. "But honestly…don't try to find him. He shows up when you least expect it, it seems. Maybe someday you'll be lucky—or unlucky. I still don't know which I am. Bad things happened because we tried to search. But good things too." He held Ursula up to kiss her.

"Anything else you can tell us?" Sherlock pressed.

"Ooh, tell him about Torchwood!" Ursula suggested.

"Ursula, we don't have anything  _to_ tell about Torchwood."

" _What's_ Torchwood?" John pressed.

Ursula eyed him. "Some kind of…organization. A government thing, we think."

"We've been off the research for a long while, but we can't help but notice when Doctor-related news pops up…and we've been hearing this name Torchwood come up. Somehow the two are related, but we haven't been able to find any information on it, other than it's a government organization for 'security matters.' Sounds like alien business, if you ask me," Elton said.

John mouthed "crackpot" to Sherlock, making him smirk.

They bid Elton goodbye, still stunned by the woman in the concrete slab. John suggested they walk a bit before catching a cab. He most certainly needed air. "Sherlock. Just…what are we dealing with here? Because I just saw something impossible back there and now we're chasing a time-traveling alien."

"I haven't the  _slightest idea._ " Sherlock stopped, shocked that he was turning up utter blanks on anything remotely logical. He began snorting into uncontrollable laughter. "I have  _no_  idea, John! I just—I just held a chunk of tarmac with a face in it! It's insane! It's all insane!"

John couldn't help laugh along with him. "That's it then! We've both gone mad. Something in the sugar, maybe?"

They continued down the sidewalk, stumbling a bit from their shaking, uncontrollable laughter. When they finally did regain their breaths enough to hail a cab, Sherlock was dialing Mycroft.

"If anyone would know something about some secretive government branch that deals with time-traveling alien doctors, it would be my dear brother," he muttered to John as he waited for Mycroft to answer.

"Yes, what have you done now?" Mycroft answered impatiently.

"Mycroft, what do you know about Torchwood?"

There was a pause, rare in a conversation with Mycroft. He seemed genuinely surprised when he spoke again. "Goodness, who have  _you_  been talking to? Torchwood's not a name you casually throw around."

" _Is_  there someone I should be talking to? What is it?"

"I can't divulge that information. The fact that you even know about it is troubling. Why on earth do you want to know?"

"I need to go there. Where is it?"

Mycroft laughed heartily, making Sherlock roll his eyes. "Even  _I_  don't have clearance there. I'm not even entirely sure what goes on there, but it's one of the most secure places in London."

"Oh  _please_. You can get into anyplace you want. Pull strings if you have to. It's important. Can you at least point me in the direction of someone who works there? I imagine even  _you_  can manage that."

"If this got back to me, I could be in serious trouble. Jailed, even."

"Don't be dramatic," Sherlock snorted. "All I was is a  _name_ , Mycroft.

Mycroft heaved a massive sigh, caving. " _Fine._ If you go to the Austrian Embassy and ask Brenetta Lave how the flower shop business is doing, she  _may_ be able to help. No guarantees. Now leave. Me. Alone. I have work to do."

Sherlock turned off his phone and leaned toward the cab driver. "Forget Baker Street. Austrian Embassy, please."

Brenetta Lave was unable to give them any further information about Torchwood, The Doctor, or his blue box, but she did finally, after much coersion, pass on a phone number and a name of someone who might be able to help.

"The wild goose chase continues," Sherlock sighed as they left the embassy, unfolding the piece of paper she'd scribbled on. "Time to call Jack Harkness."


	3. Chapter 3

When Sherlock called the number of Jack Harkness, it took several tries before a boisterous American voice answered. "Y-ello?"

"Jack Harkness?"

"Who is this, and why don't I already know you? Anyone with a baritone voice that sexy is definitely worth knowing."

Sherlock cast John a sideways look. This wasn't quite the reception he'd expected.

"This is Sherlock Holmes, I'm a detective. I'm working on a case. Might I be able to meet with you sometime today?"

"Sherlock Holmes! For you I'd meet any time. I've got some places to go-what year are you in right now?"

"What year am I in? It's 2012. When and where can you meet?"

"What day is it? I can meet you today, at whatever time it is now and whatever location you're at. If that's convenient."

Sherlock paused for a moment while he considered this proposition before finally telling the date and time. "There's a café on Baker Street called Speedy's. Can you meet there?"

"I know the place! If you go down now, I should be there by now."

Sherlock frowned and slipped his phone into his pocket. "Are you busy, John? Care to meet a man who just asked me what the current year is?" He raised his eyebrow, and John flipped off his laptop.

As they stepped outside the flat, a handsome man in a blue wool coat spun around to look at them expectantly.

"Jack Harkness, I presume," Sherlock said, assessing him.

Jack did the same, looking him up from head to toe. "Sherlock Holmes." He extended his hand to shake. "Hellooooo. Tall, dark, and handsome! Be still my heart. And who's this?" He smiled at John.

"John Watson. How…did you get here so quickly?" John asked.

"Time vortex manipulator." Jack held up his arm and pushed up his coat sleeve to show off the device. "I was in 1995 taking care of a few...obstacles, but nothing I couldn't rearrange for you two gentlemen." He winked at John, much to John's alarm and confusion. The man was, in John's opinion, a bit too charming to be trustworthy. "How did you hear about me, and what can I do for you?"

They stepped inside the café and got an unobtrusive table where they could talk more comfortably. Sherlock began laying out what they knew of the Doctor, and the original case that he'd taken to solve.

"We need to find him," John finished up. "If he exists…"

"Oh, the Doctor exists. And sometimes I can even track him down," Jack grinned.

"What, with that device on your arm? Let me see that." Sherlock seized his arm and began to examine the manipulator. He'd never seen anything else like it. "How on earth does a 'time vortex manipulator' even work? How do you know this Doctor in the first place? How do you contact him?"

"Easy, tiger!" Jack laughed. "The Doctor and I go way back. It's been years since I've seen him…word on the street is he's regenerated since then."

"Regenerated?" Sherlock waited for clarification.

"Yeah, he's got this thing he does: changes his entire cellular structure if he's about to die," Jack explained. "All Time Lords could do it."

"That's what Elton meant when he wrote on his website that the Doctor could 'change his face,'" Sherlock murmured, lacing his fingers. "Fascinating."

"Aliens. Time travel. This is mad. This is absolutely mad," John said.

"What is a Time Lord? Is that some sort of appointed position?"

"It's his species. He's the last one. Well, there was the Master. That was fun. He took great joy in killing me. Over and over."

"Over and over?" John repeated. "I don't follow."

Jack leaned in and looked around the mostly-deserted café. "Do you know what happens when a human absorbs Huon energy from the heart of the TARDIS?" He took in their blank looks. " Of course you don't, from what you've said, you don't even know what the TARDIS is yet. Long story short, I died and I was brought back to life and now I can't die. I can't. I mean, I've been killed a bunch of times and I'll come right back." He smiled sadly. "I'll outlive the Doctor. And he's seen a lot of years."

"How many is a lot in this case?" Sherlock asked. "How old is he now?"

"Well, depends on where in his time stream he is. He's a time traveler, isn't he? His timeline doesn't follow a neat, straight line. I could see him today and he could be 926, and I could see him tomorrow at 903."

"Sorry, 926? Is that an age he's likely to be?"

Jack grinned and pointed at John's face. "He's adorable when he's confused! I can see why you keep him around!" He leaned in confidentially once more. "Are you two together? If not…I know this great bar not far from here." He winked at Sherlock who frowned and leaned away.

"How does one track the Doctor down if he's always 'jumping around' in time?" Sherlock asked.

Jack laughed. "It's a bit like chasing a ghost, but sometimes it works. It all gets a bit muddled…"

"Will you help us, then?" John asked eagerly.

"I'd love to, but Torchwood is backed up right now. As Captain, I have more responisibilities than most. Now, if you two were immortal, we might be in business, because it could take a while."

"You've been wasting our time," John snapped. "You've given us nothing. Thanks."

"Oh, I wouldn't say nothing, John," Sherlock said calmly.

"Hey, cheer up, handsome." Jack patted John on he shoulder as he rose. "The doctor has a habit of showing up to those who need them. Have a little faith."

"Faith? He's not a god, is he?"

"Mm, some might say so," Jack said, buttoning his coat. "If I get some word of him being in your time, I'll give you a call. Maybe I'll call you sooner than that." He grinned at Sherlock again, much to John's irritation.

"Is there anything else you can tell us, or are you going to stand here and flirt the rest of the afternoon?" he snapped.

"Sounds like a good use of time to me…" Jack smiled, then he winked at the waitress clearing up their mostly unused table. "Thanks, beautiful!"

"Unbelievable," John muttered as he dragged Sherlock back outside the café.

After John buried his bitterness about Jack's blatant flirting with Sherlock and Sherlock's ambiguity towards it all, he tried once again to wrap his head around all the information that had been thrust into his brain over the past few hours and weeks.

Sherlock seemed equally overwhelmed. "I never thought I would find myself believing in extraterrestrial life here in London, but all the facts point in the same direction," Sherlock muttered.

"That man was supposedly in 1995 this morning. That man is supposedly immportal. That man has a massive crush on you. Sherlock, when did our lives go from moderately crazy to downright loopy?"

"Oh, don't be dull, John, things went from crazy to loopy as soon as Duncan Reynolds II walked through the door. Massive crush? Please. He flirted with everyone."

"Well, he was positively fawning over you," John grumbled. "Shameless!"

Sherlock gave him a sideways glance. "It seems irrational to get worked up over," he pointed out. "Now. We'll need to amass what everyone's told us so far, and try to figure out the best way to find this madman."

"Right…" John rubbed his forehead. "Maybe there are…spots he likes to frequent? Places he's turned up in over and over again?"

"That's good, John, very very good!" Sherlock clapped excitedly and stood up. This was one of the slowest-moving cases he'd had in a long while, but it they were getting closer, ever so slowly, to uncovering who the Doctor really was.

Sherlock never expected his case to zig-zag in an entirely new direction so rapidly as it did the following week, however, when he and John were coming home from a secondary, more straightforward case that Sherlock had taken on.

Mrs. Hudson was bustling around in their flat.

"Sherlock! There you are- this man's been asking for you- he just let himself in. Showed me his badge- the inspector of—" she turned towards the kitchen. "Sorry, dear, what did you say you were the inspector of?"

A man with floppy brown hair, a prominent chin, bowtie, tweed jacket, and scuffed boots stepped out of the kitchen munching on a carrot. "Hats." He looked at John and Sherlock thoughtfully, then pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock. "Did you know there are lungs in your refrigerator? I hope you weren't planning on eating them. They give you horrible indigestion." He added, almost as a sidenote to himself, "I am never going back to Pluto," then aloud once more, "Love your landlady! Almost makes me wish I lived in a flat. Almost."

He grinnd and rubbed his hands together, approaching Sherlock and John as if they were celebrities. "Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson! I had to come find you and ask: Why aren't you in 1895 where you belong?"


	4. Chapter 4

                  Sherlock and John stood staring at the man for a moment, not saying anything. Sherlock finally stepped forward, looking the man up and down. “The Doctor,” he said, hardly believing it was really him.

                  “Oh! You’re a doctor as well? You must lead a busy life with two jobs,” Mrs. Hudson interjected cheerfully.

                  John finally found his voice as well. “You’re—you’re really him. My God. What do you mean, 1895? How did you find us?”

                  “I presume you know I was looking for you, then,” Sherlock added.

                  Mrs. Hudson looked between the three of them, then turned to the doorway and popped out, saying, “I’ll go down and fix you up some cakes.”

                  The Doctor waved as she left. “Lovely woman, your landlady. Almost makes me wish I had a landlady.” He turned to Sherlock, looking _him_ up and down this time. “You said you were looking for _me?_ Ooh, that’s interesting…” He picked up a magnifying glass from the mantelpiece and looked through it, spinning around. “I’ve read all your stories—brilliant stuff! Best detective London will ever see.” He stopped spinning and looked up at Sherlock, grinning. Sherlock frowned at him, unsure how to handle the man who was so confidently yammering away and touching his things without the slightest hint of explanation. “Sherlock Holmes,” The Doctor said admiringly.

                  John, used to fading to the background when Sherlock was being praised was shocked when the Doctor turned to him. “And John Watson, the most human human, the bravest—“ he grabbed John’s hand and shook it as John stared at him, dumbfounded. “It’s such an honor. From the bottom of my hearts.”

                  “What _stories_?” Sherlock spat. He wasn’t impressed with the man’s ramblings or praise.

                  “Do you mean the blogs?” John asked.

                  “ _Blogs_?” The Doctor looked like he’d just eaten something bitter. “See, this is absurd. You two aren’t supposed to be... _now_. But I checked 1895 and you weren’t there, you simply didn’t exist. So I go to 2012 to the Sherlock Holmes museum at this address and it’s not there, it’s just...your flat.” He poked Sherlock in the chest, and Sherlock took the opportunity to snatch back his magnifying glass. **“** And here you are, it’s really you.  But you don’t...make sense.”

                  “Don’t touch my things. You’re ruining the dust line.” He placed it back on the mantle carefully. “I was warned that you would talk quickly, Doctor, but I didn’t expect to hear you babble nonsense. Why would my flat be a museum? And what business would I have being in 1895?”

                  “He’s right; we only just started believing time travel was possible a couple days ago,” John pointed out.

                  The Doctor shook his head. “Your flat is a museum because it, and you, are famous. Everyone loves Sherlock Holmes!”                 

                  “Probably because they haven’t met him,” John said lightly.

                  Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, then turned to back to the Doctor.. “You’re mistaken. I’m not at all famous enough to warrant a museum. So, before I phone up my good client and wrap up this case, explain _yourself._ ”

                  “Are you really…an alien?” John asked the Doctor. “You look human to me. You sound human. You sound _English_.”

                  “Yes, of course I’m alien. If you were in Italy I’d sound Italian. The TARDIS does a marvelous job translating,” the Doctor said absently, pacing. “Why are you here? _Why?_ Time can be rewritten, Mr. Holmes--can I call you Sherlock? Brilliant name, Sherlock. Time can be rewritten, but people don’t just stop existing one century and start existing in another…”

                  Sherlock huffed impatiently. “I never _existed_ in 1895, therefore cannot stop existing there. Your logic is ludicrous.”

                  “ _Logic!_ If you’re going to rely on logic for everything you’ll miss so much. I’ve been to London in this era before. You can buy Sherlock Holmes books in any bookstore. There’s a statue of you--in that hat—outside the Baker Street tube station.” He points to the deerstalker sitting on John’s chair. “221b Baker Street is an address everyone knows and flocks to. Except now all of that’s gone, so either I’m in the wrong universe- again- or time is being extraordinarily naughty.”

                  “ _Or,_ you’re just a madman with a box.”

                  The Doctor sternly approached him. “Let me make one thing clear. The one thing you must understand about me: I am _definitely_ a mad man with a box. Doesn’t make me less right, though.”

                  “Good God, do you and Duncan _both_ suffer from delusional memories? I was born here in London, 1981,” Sherlock said.

                  “And I believe you, of course I do: here you are, living proof. But it’s still wrong. It’d be like if Lord Nelson was living down the street. It’s in the _wrong order_...but why?”

                  “You’re implying that I’m some sort of historical figure or a…a character from a book,” Sherlock laughed.

                  “How do I explain this? Picture a clothesline--no, it’s nothing like that, forget the clothes line. In fact, forget the whole thing. You _are_ a character from a book, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t real.  But the stories about you got so famous that you became stuff of legend. Worthy of a museum, and so much more.”

                  “You really shouldn’t tell him this, his ego’s already too big for this flat. I’d rather not upsize,” John said.

                  Sherlock was too busy looking the Doctor over, fascinated despite the absurdity of it all. He finally got out his phone and began dialing Duncan. “Does the name Duncan Reynolds II ring a bell? The Blitz in London? He says you saved his life when he was a child.”

                  “ _Will_ save. Probably. Why is he looking for me _now_?”

                  “He wants to thank you, I suppose, or at least confirm he isn’t mad, since he just saw you a few weeks back.”

                  “Did he? That _does_ happen.” The Doctor began circling Sherlock. “Where am I in your life? I know it all, from your first case with Dr. Watson to your Final Bow...have you done Reichenbach Falls yet? I really would love to have that explained to me: How _does_ one survive a plummet over a waterfall?”

                  Sherlock had reached Duncan’s ansaphone. “Duncan Reynolds, it’s Sherlock Holmes. The Doctor is currently standing in my flat. Please phone back.” He hung up and watched the Doctor circle him, annoyed at the Doctor’s strange interest in him. “Would you be referring to the case in which I retrieved the Reichenbach _painting?_ ”

                  “Interesting. Your life _doesn’t_ completely follow the stories.”

                  “Perhaps because the _stories are wrong_ ,” Sherlock snapped impatiently.

                  “But there’s a Mrs. Hudson, and your John Watson is right here! Is there a Professor Moriarty? An Inspector Lestrade?”

                  “Moriarty’s not a professor,” John interjected. “He’s probably pretended to be, though. He took up the alias ‘Rich Brook’ and forced Sherlock to fake his own death.”

                  “If there were allegedly famous stories of us, don’t you find it odd that we haven’t heard about them before?” Sherlock asked.

                  “No, because this is a whole different time stream. But the stories _exist_. Classic pieces of Victorian-era fiction.” The Doctor thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. ‘I’ve got a copy lying around the TARDIS. You won’t be able to see the last ones—spoilers. Follow me, I’m parked down the road!”

                  Not knowing what else to do, John and Sherlock followed the strange man out into the street, stopping outside his phone box as he unlocked it. John was shocked to see it in reality; they’d spent so long searching for it, and here it was, astounding in how ordinary it looked. He touched it to make sure it was real.

                  “Well, come in, then!” The Doctor said, pushing the door open.

                  “We’re all going to cram into your box while you find a book? I’ll wait here, thanks,” Sherlock sniffed.

                  The Doctor chuckled and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, yanking him inside. “This is going to blow a hole in your logic frame…”

                  Sherlock’s jaw dropped at the sight of the console room. He blinked a couple times, then raced back outside, running the circumference of the phone box, then back in again. “…It’s bigger on the inside…” he murmured.

                  “That never gets old!” The Doctor said. He stepped up to John, who hadn’t moved, his eyes wide as he stared up in awe. “How are you faring, Doctor Watson?”

                  John began to laugh, shaking his head.

                  Sherlock began muttering to himself at breakneck speed, touching everything he saw. “Kaluza-Klein Theory? String theory…? It must be a holograph, or a—a—black hole of thermodynamics—“ He grabbed the Doctor. “What is this? How is this possible? We’re inside a bloody _paradox_ right now!

                  “It’s in the name—relative dimension. Bit too complicated for humans. You never get the hang of this stuff, nor should you.”

                  “This is amazing. Fantastic!” John said, staggering up to the console.

                  “It’s absurd!” Sherlock said, irritated and frustrated. “It’s not logical! It doesn’t make _sense._ ”

                  The Doctor grinned, clapped him on the shoulder, then disappeared up the steps, calling, “I think I last saw the book in the squash courts, or possibly the reptile enclosure! Back in a mo’!” His voice faded deep into the TARDIS.

                  John walked around the console, keeping his hands away from the levers and buttons, but gawping at it all. “This is…really happening.” He pinched his own arm and giggled nervously.

“We’re in a-a _time machine_ , Sherlock! A…spaceship!”

                  Sherlock burst into laughter himself, unable to contain all the confusion. They were both too overwhelmed to say anything coherent until the Doctor returned with a battered copy of _The Adventures and Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes._ He tossed it to Sherlock.  
                  “These are just some of the stories, and none of them are the final ones. I won’t tell you about your future too much but…do you like beekeeping?”

                  Sherlock ran his fingers over his own name printed on the cover, frowning at the absurd illustration of a gaunt man with a pipe and a deerstalker hat. “Beekeeping?” he muttered distractedly, then began flipping through the pages. “’A Study in Scarlet’…this is just like—look, John, Irene Adler—“ he passed the book to John. “ _How_ is this possible?”

                  John leafed through it. It was the strangest thing to skim through events so similar to his life, written by someone who sounded and thought like him, except from over a century earlier and written by a strange man. John finally put the book on the console.

                  “Who’s Arthur Conan Doyle?”                 

                  “The author,” The Doctor said. “Brilliant man, forever having adventures himself, when he wasn’t writing them.”

                  “ _I get married?!”_ John yelled at the page in the book.

                  The Doctor snatched the book out of his hands. “Perhaps _you_ don’t. The stories are hardly identical.”

                  “Sherlock, the first time we met…that’s all in here. _Stamford_ ’s in here! And my phone is a pocket watch…and Harry isn’t Harriet, it’s a man. I…this version of me has a brother!” John ran his hands down his face. “This is too much.”

                  Sherlock stood silently, fingers steepled and pressed against his lips. He took a deep breath and cast a steely look at the Doctor. “All right. This isn’t…logical or probable, but here it is. So…so what?”

                  “So this is probably the biggest, strangest mystery you’ll ever try to solve, Sherlock. That is, if you’re willing to take it on.”

                  Sherlock gave a hesitant, stiff nod. “Right.” He looked over at John. “Are you in?”

                  “Definitely.”

                  The Doctor looked up at central TARDIS column fondly, rubbing his hands together. “So, dear, what do you think? New passengers?” He ran around the console and began flipping switches. “Hang on to something! Next stop: 1895!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying it! Since I already have this story typed up and am only making small adjustments as I go, I'm aiming to post a new chapter every day. If I stay on schedule, the fic should be complete by January 26! Hooray! Reviews are appreciated, as always :)


	5. Chapter 5

                  “London in 1895!” The Doctor crowed as the TARDIS lurched to a halt. “Full of mystery, you’ll love it! The gas lamps, the opium dens, the aristocracy and the beggar class, all mingling together with pickpockets, murderers, secret societies, crimes galore! …all we have to do is see if we can track down Mr. Doyle.”

                  “Do you know where he is?” Sherlock said, letting go of the railing.

                  The Doctor walked to the door, touched the handle, then stopped. “I have a hunch. …Want to take the first look, Sherlock?”

                  He stood aside as Sherlock stepped warily towards the door. He expected to see Baker Street as it was five minutes ago, but he was also giddily hoping to be proved wrong.

                  Sherlock slowly pushed open the door and gaped at the Baker Street before him, which was milling with horse-drawn carriages, people in Victorian clothing, urchins, and carts heaped with produce or coal. The air was thick and foul, but it was definitely Baker Street.

                  “J-John—“ Sherlock blindly grabbed behind him for John, grabbing him and pulling him to the door to see.

                  “Where did we go?” John asked when he was able to speak again.

                  “Baker Street, London, 1895,” The Doctor said, merrily pushing them out into the street. “Welcome home!”

                  “This…is definitely not home,” John said, turning in a circle to take in everything.

                  Sherlock was walking around to take everything in, muttering time travel theories to himself.

                  “Come along! Let’s go see who’s living in 221B, shall we?” The Doctor said, leading the way.

                  “Won’t we stick out? Our clothes aren’t exactly…accurate,” John pointed out, hurrying to keep up.

                  “Just pretend like you belong! That’s what I do. Works every time! Well, 9 times out of ten. …Maybe 7.”

                  The Doctor rang the bell of 221B Baker Street, and a young woman answered the door. She took in the strangely-clad men. “May I help you gentlemen with someone?”

                  The Doctor held up a badge that looked very much blank to John and Sherlock. “Fireplace inspectors, mind if we come in?” He pushed his way in despite the woman’s protests. “City mandated, won’t be a moment!”

                  John and Sherlock followed the Doctor uncertainly inside a hallway that was eerily similar to the 221 of their day. “Who lives in the flat upstairs?” he asked the woman, who was knocking on the door that would have been Mrs. Hudson’s flat in modern day.

                  “No one, sir,” she said. “Mr. Doyle, sir?”

                  A preoccupied, blonde-haired man opened the door. “Mary, I told you, no callers, not while I’m writing.”

                  “Ah! Sir Arthur Conan Doyle…fascinating.” The Doctor flashed his psychic paper and stepped inside.

                  “I beg your pardon, sir!” Arthur stepped backwards as the men stepped in.

                  Sherlock hungrily looked around, finding the flat harder to decipher than he was used to, since so many of the items were out of his historical context. “What are you writing?” he couldn’t help asking.

                  “A historical fiction piece; I’m through with those adventure stories.”

                  “Ever written any detective stories?” The Doctor asked.

                  “None worth mentioning…I thought you were here to check the fireplace, not poke around my papers!”

                  The Doctor absently stuck his head up the fireplace for a moment. “Bit of soot build-up, nothing hazardous. Now then…the flat upstairs. Has anyone ever lived up there?”

                  “Not recently. I’m sorry, _who are you_?” Arthur asked.

                  “You don’t recognize either of these men?” The Doctor asked. “The name Sherlock Holmes doesn’t ring any bells?”

                  “Well, of course I don’t recognize them! Sherlock _who?!_ What is the meaning of this, this flimsy pretense to inspect chimneys so that you can bombard me with absurd questions with no explanation? Clear out at once! Mary, show them the door!”

                  “Ooh, Arthur, I always imagined you to be a more amiable chap. Good luck on your histories.”

                  Once the three had shuffled back out of the hallway into the street, the Doctor began pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. “Now…this is interesting. Doyle’s here, existing where he’s supposed to, but he can’t write about Sherlock Holmes because he doesn’t exist here, which means he’ll never ben famous.” He pointed to Sherlock, then prodded him in the nose, much to Sherlock’s displeasure. “ _You_ made him famous, Sherlock, and you’re not here. Well, you _are_ here now, but you don’t live here, so history is rewriting itself just…on it’s own! Why?”

                  “As intriguing as it is, I fail to see the issue,” Sherlock said. “Who cares if he doesn’t publish a book of stories? It’s not as if people will know what they’re missing, and I hardly impact the world for the worse. You’ve been to 2012, you’ve _seen_ it. The world is spinning on as happily as it is able, so what _exactly_ is the problem?”

                  “You’re missing the point! Time simply doesn’t _work_ this way. It’s like…if you were on a case and there was nothing at stake, and the world would continue on regardless of whether you solved it or not, but it was so incredibly _puzzling,_ would you just leave it be because it wasn’t relevant?”

                  Sherlock didn’t have to consider this deeply to know that he wouldn’t leave a puzzling case, no matter how irrelevant it was to the larger society.

                  “Wait, how do we know that you didn’t read my blog then make that book up yourself, and bring us here for your own bizarre…alien agenda?” John offered up.

                  “And how do you know that this reality is wrong and yours is right? Who are you to say which ‘universe’ is correct?” Sherlock asked.

                  The Doctor ceased his pacing looked at him with considerable pride. “…Good. Brilliant. Oh, I knew I was going to like you. And maybe you’re right, but even if it was the other way…why did you stop being in 2012 and start being in 1895? Either way you do it, it makes no sense. So this is either a parallel universe…an incredibly daft one—no offense—or _something_ changed things for reasons I can’t understand yet.” They headed back to the TARDIS and stepped back inside. **“** I might need to drop you home for a while…things need checking.”

                 

                  A few rattles, whirs and shakes of the TARDIS later and they were back in 2012, confirmed by John, who lurched to the door and looked around the much more familiar version of his home street. John must have had a shell-shocked look about his face, for the Doctor stepped over and clapped him on the shoulder. “John Watson! You magnificent man—how are you holding up? 1895 too much?”

                  “I’m good, I just…I can’t quite…that. Was. _Incredible_.”

                  Sherlock frowned at the two of them, stepping to stand a bit possessively by John.

“Doctor, when will we see you again?”

                  “I can be back an hour from now if you like,” the Doctor said.

                  “Although I imagine for you, you’ll be away for far longer,” Sherlock said.

                  “Quite right,” the Doctor grinned. “See you soon, my literary impossibilities!”

                  He disappeared into the TARDIS, then John and Sherlock watched in silent amazement as the box whirred, flashed, faded in and out of view, then finally vanished from the pavement.

 

                  For the next hour or so, John and Sherlock were silent as they trekked back into their flat, sinking down into their respective chairs to process everything.

                  John finally asked, “…What if we really _are_ supposed to be in 1895?”

                  Sherlock snorted. “Don’t be daft, John. It’s absurd.”

                  “So is the fact that we just _time traveled_ with an alien in a police box that’s HUGE inside! I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

                  Sherlock began irritably leafing through the Sherlock Holmes stories, which he’d purloined from the console before they’d left. “Hm. Some of these quotes are identical to conversations we had.” His lip curled as he read a passage silently. “Our discussion of the solar system, for one.”

                  “What, 1895 Sherlock doesn’t know that the earth goes round the sun either?” John sniggered.

                  Sherlock flipped forward a couple pages. “Ha! Wrong.” He kept skimming. “Wrong—wrong! Gregson...who’s he? We don’t know a DI Gregson, do we? Clearly this is a load of rubbish. These stories aren’t even accurate. Embellished… _falsehoods_.” He tossed the book to John, fed up. “Ridiculous.”

                  “Look at the publication date…this one’s a reprint from the 1960s! _How_ can this be real? So much of it _is_ like our lives…the physical description of you is perfect. How could this book, published before either of us was born, describe us so perfectly? Parallel universe or not…it’s giving me goosebumps.”

                  “I don’t know…it would seem an impossibility, if we hadn’t been in 1895 an hour ago.” He checked the time on his phone. “…More than. The Doctor should be back by now.” He drummed his fingers on his chair for a moment, then lept up. “To hell with waiting for him! Since when do I need _him_ to work on a case? John, Google ‘Arthur Conan Doyle.’”

                  John skimmed the brief Wikipedia article and related it to Sherlock. It wasn’t a long entry; Doyle was a Victorian writer who wrote a great deal of stuff, mainly historical chronicles and a few adventure stories, although nearly all of his works were out of print, more or less vanished into obscurity.

                  “Does it say anything about any events in his life in 1895?”

                  “Nothing specific,” John said.

                  Sherlock impatiently glanced at the time. “Why can’t this man _text_ like everyone else?

 _This_ is why I like receiving texts—because you can notify someone when you are running late. You would think that someone who makes their living in…time…would be able to _keep track of it_.”

            “Well, he might be keeping track of _his_ timeline…he could be in 1775 by now, for all we know.” It drove John mad. They had _been_ there, 1895…only for a few tantalizing minutes. Who was this alien, who dropped into people’s lives, dragged them off somewhere fantastically different, then dumped them back into their ordinary lives minutes later?

                  “That doesn’t make it any less impolite,” Sherlock said irritably.

                  John didn’t’ understand how Sherlock did it. They had just time-travelled, and now Sherlock looked as bored as if they had popped out for a coffee at a corner shop. “Only you would call an alien who took us to 1895 ‘impolite.’ Didn’t _any_ of that...astonish you? I was floored! Even if I never see the Doctor again, I will remember him as fantastic. My life can’t be the same again…I’ve _been to 1895 London_!”

                  “As entertaining as all of that was, he still broke into our flat and tried to convince us that we ‘belonged’ in a different century.”

                  John pursed his lips, considering this. He tapped his fingers on his chair. “D’you fancy a pint?” He offered. “Regardless of how you feel about alcohol, I desperately need a drink.”

                  Sherlocl’s mouth twitched into a smile. If ever there was day for a drink, this is was it. He had been converted from an utter critic of aliens and time travel into a full-fledged believer.

                  “At the moment, I think a bit of alcohol would agree with me.”

                  “Right!” John stood up, pleasantly surprised that Sherlock was game to join him. He often made it a point to avoid pubs, especially on those days when a match was on. “Cross and Keys, then? It’s just down the road.”

 

                  “To 1895!” John and Sherlock clinked their pint glasses together. It was a Monday evening and it was quiz night at a neighboring pub, so the two men had an entire corner of the pub to themselves.

                  “1895…” Sherlock repeated, reflectively looking at the color of his ale as he held the glass up to the light. “God, John, we were _there._ ”

                  “Nobody will ever believe us,” John muttered.

                  “Mmm. Add it to the long list of other things people don’t believe about your life,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.

                  John reddened. The first thing that came into his mind, of course, was everyone’s assumption or sometimes, insistence, that he was gay. It annoyed John to no end, and it annoyed him even more that every time someone assumed that he and Sherlock were a couple, he felt a deep relunctance to correct them.

                  He would never, ever tell Sherlock this, of course. Their friendship was invaluable, and if it caused John a bit of private suffering and confusion, so be it. Better than to wreck it by sharing the truth and losing the closest friend he’d ever had.

                  “And the Doctor…he was—“ John changed the subject, trying with frustration to describe the strange man in the box properly. “I felt like I had no way of understand him. And did he seem old to you? He _looked_ younger than us. But…”

                  “Mm, I know what you mean. It’s clear that he’s intelligent, but if he’s an alien life form with the technology to travel through space and time at such speeds, than that’s only natural. As for seeming _old_ …yes, he did. Sometimes.” Sherlock frowned.

                  “And other times he seemed like he was five! I don’t think it would be possible to sit down and have a proper conversation with him,” John said.

                  “No, it’d be useless. An utter waste of time,” Sherlock said, pausing to drink a large portion of his pint. “I would love to take a scalpel to that man and dissect him. Now _that_ would be fascinating! A bivascular system! Who knows what about his biology is different? Examining the genetic code would be wonderful…”

                  He caught John’s horrified look. “Oh come on, you’re a _doctor!_ You must be curious.”

                  “Yeah, but you could always, you know…do an x-ray.”

                  Sherlock gave him a disparaging look before they both finally broke down laughing.

                  “Nonsense,” Sherlock chuckled. “I want to see his actual insides.”

                  John giggled. “That sounds so creepy.” He put on a lecherous voice. “I want to see inside of him…”

                  “ _What?_ It would be fascinating, admit it!”

                  John grinned into his pint glass. “Maybe next time we see him—if he ever turns up—you can ask to vivisect him. Maybe his species is fine with that.”

 

                  A couple of pints apiece later, both John and Sherlock were pleasantly buzzed, John moreso. Sherlocked noticed how unsteady John was when they got to their feet to head back.

                  “You know, John, someone of your stature shouldn’t have three pints in less than an hour.”

                  “Of my _stature_? What are you implying?”

                  “I’m not implying _anything._ I am blatantly noting that you’re short—vertically lacking, if you will.” Sherlock bit back a grin.

John stormed out into the street, Sherlock following after. “Oh, right! _That’s_ why you keep me around, isn’t it? The short, dumpy-looking ex-army doctor makes the tall, mysertious detective look all the more striking by comparison! I’m the Robin to your ‘Hat-Man,’ the bachelor to your boffin. That’s just fine! It’s fine!”

                  Sherlock couldn’t help but find it amusing when John ranted. He got so worked up over the most trivial things. “I don’t believe _anyone_ ever called you ‘dumpy-looking’, least of all, myself.”                 

                  He had hoped this comment would pacify John, but the man was on a roll with his rant. “No, no! Of course you didn’t! It’s all, ‘Adorable blog, John!’ ‘Shut up and have some jam like an ordinary person, John!’ ‘I’m not going to tell you when I’m in mortal peril because I have to protect you, John!’ I’m not some tiny hedgehog that needs coddling, you know! Sometime you make me feel so…so…so less of a man. Weak.”

                  Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed. “I didn’t know the idea of me wanting you alive and unarmed would be so offensive to you.”

                  “It’s not that…I just don’t like feeling…coddled. I was in the army, you know. I’m good at surviving.”

                  “Is it really that upsetting to you that I don’t want you to _have_ to survive?” Sherlock unlocked the door the flat and held it open for John.

                  John stepped inside and sighed. “Well…no.”

                  Sherlock stepped in and closed the door, and for a moment they stood in the hallway, looking at each other.

                  They finally turned and silently headed up the stairs to the flat.

                  Sherlock wondered where this rant from John was coming from. Had he been bottling this all up for a long time? Sherlock had several suspicions about John, but he’d never brought them to light for long, in fear that it would put a strain on their friendship, which he deeply valued.

                  Once inside their flat, John dropped onto the sofa. “Y’know, it’s not fair, you running around trying to protect _me_. What do you think _I’m_ trying to do?”

                  Sherlock frowned. “I knowingly put myself in dangerous situations, John. You don’t have to try to protect me.”

                  “It’s the _same with me!_ And yes, I _do_ have to protect you. Do you know how many times you’ve needed your ass saved? Let’s take a tally, shall we?”

                  “John, can we not? Perhaps you should get a glass of water and go to bed.”

                  “I’m not that drunk! The point is…I would do anything to save you, Sherlock. If you died, Sherlock, died for _real_ …oh, hell, we’ve been through this before. You know how I care about you.” John leaned over and rubbed his forehead with his hand. He wanted so badly to tell Sherlock, to release the overwhelming, churning emotions inside of him, to bring them out of him so he could make some sort of sense from them.

                  Sherlock watched him, silently tapping his hand against the wall it was resting against. “John…I need to ask you a strange question.”

                  John looked up, waiting.

                  “Do you love me?” he burst out. “I mean to say…are you _in_ love with me?”

                  “Am I…am I… _what_?” Sherock opened his mouth to repeat the question, but John hurriedly said, “No, no…don’t.” He forced a laugh. “No! No. What…why do you…uhh…” John clenched his eyes shut for a moment, then looked at the carpet. “What made you think that?”

                  “Well…” Sherlock cleared his throat, which felt unnecessarily tight, and John hastily got up to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. “There’ve been…signs…”

                  John walked back into the living room, looking at Sherlock incredulously. “ _Signs_? What signs?”

                  “Listing them all would be a tedious process for both of us, John. Remember, on that first day, I asked you…”

                  “Yeah, and I told you I wasn’t!” John said. His heart was hammering. Sherlock had suspected this whole time, and hadn’t said anything? “I’ve had _how_ many girlfriends, Sherlock? What will it take to convince you that I’m not lying?” What would it take to convince _himself_ that he wasn’t lying?

                  Sherlock continued to tap his fingers on the wall, not looking at John. “There is…one way. A physical reaction. An experiment.”

                  John was finding it difficult to breathe.

                  “Kiss me.”

                  “Wh-what? How will _that_ prove…anything?”

                  Sherlock took a somewhat hesitant step towards John. “If I’m wrong, consider the whole episode forgotten. I’ll never bring it up again.”

                  And what if he wasn’t wrong? John thought, backing up until the backs of his knees hit the couch. “Why…why do you have to prove it? Why can’t you…take my word for it?” His voice grew lower as Sherlock stepped closer.

                  Everything John had noticed with fleeting glances about Sherlock seemed magnified now; the tendons at his neck, leading down to the dip of his collarbone, his nearly iridescent pale skin, his piercing eyes, which were now locked with John’s.                 

                  “Why are you so _against_ proving it?” Sherlock took another step towards him.

John blinked rapidly, his heart hammering. Sherlock didn’t care about him like this. Why was he tormenting him? “That’s not a fair question…either way I answer, it looks…bad.” He licked his lips, equally wanting and dreading for Sherlock to continue moving closer.

                  “I already told you, if this isn’t right, it’s forgotten.” They were now toe to toe. Sherlock noted John’s quicked breathing. “Your pupils are dilated.”

                  John swallowed. His lips were so close… “They dilate when I’m drunk,” he murmured desperately.

                  “You said yourself, you’re not that drunk.”

                  John was whispering now. He knew he was blantantly staring at Sherlock’s mouth, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away. “Sherlock, we can’t, we’re not actually going to—“

                  Sherlock cut him off with a soft kiss, wrapping a hesitant hand around the back of John’s neck to pull him into the kiss.

                  John inhaled sharply, and it took all of his control to keep his hands from wrapping around Sherlock’s neck and pulling him closer. Instead, he forced himself to pull away and stared up at Sherlock. “See? It’s all fine. You should trust me.”

                  Sherlocked pulled away, surprised. “Oh.” He backed up a bit more and nodded. “You’re right, John. I’m sorry, I didn’t—I wasn’t. I should go to bed.”

                  He turned to leave, but John grabbed his arm, feeling injured. “Why did you have to do that? I mean…you don’t feel anything for me…do you?”

                  Sherlock avoided John’s question and said as coolly as he could, “As I said, it’s forgotten, John. I should have taken your word for it. Won’t happen again.”

                  John’s heart sank. “Okay.I mean…good. Goodnight.”

                  They stood where they were for a moment. “John…you’re still holding my arm.”

                  John dropped it as if it were made of hot iron, then backed away. “Sorry! Goodnight.”

                  “Goodnight, John.”

                 

                  John trudged up to his bedroom, replaying the kiss over and over, the feeling of Sherlock’s lips, the closeness of him. Although he reimagined it over and over, it hurt the same amount each time.

                  He was entirely and completely in love with Sherlock. It seemed so obvious a statement now, but the kiss had sealed it. The only kiss he would ever have with him. This thought haunted John until dawn.


	6. Chapter 6

                  For the next few days, John avoided the flat. Sherlock didn’t try to contact him for help with cases, unsure whether to be relieved, since it spared them both of embarrassing, awkward conversations, or hurt. Hurt, Sherlock decided, was an absurd thing to think. So what if he’d been wrong? So what if John had rejected him? It wasn’t as if he felt anything for John. He buried himself in his work and experiments, trying to get rid of the echoing question John had posed that night. “You don’t…feel anything for me, do you?”

                  Did he? Sherlock had long prided himself of eradicating any detrimental sentiment but over the past few years, John had burrowed persistently into Sherlock’s heart. It would be illogical to deny that he cared for John. That much was evident. But romantic feelings?

                  “Romantic” was not a word that agreed with Sherlock. He had removed himself so far from anything of the sort for decades, but now, he was frustrated to find, his mind kept drifting back to the kiss. It had been so short, and so _stupid._ Why hadn’t he just believed John and left it? Why had he felt the urge to prove it?

                  One evening, as he sat at the kitchen counter, measuring the toxicity of large quantities of nutmeg, some part of his brain suggested that he had, on some level, been curious as to what kissing John Watson would be like. He immediately tossed this off as ridiculous and, furious with himself, grabbed his things and headed to St. Bart’s to work without distractions.

 

                  When Sherlock returned home far after dark, John was in his chair, reading. It was the first time Sherlock had seen him looking settled in the flat since the kiss.

                  “Pulled a late one. Typical.” John didn’t look up at Sherlock, but there wasn’t an angry tone in his voice.

                  Sherlock didn’t answer as he removed his coat, hung it up, and went to his microscope. He didn’t put a slide underneath it, he just stared through at the illuminated white spot underneath. “John…I’m sorry that I…I had thought that you…” He clamped his mouth shut. “I should have believed you.”

                  “Yeah, you really should have.” Bitterness crept into John’s voice as he stood up, folding up his newspaper. “I don’t know why you felt you had to—why’d you have to go complicate everything? I really did like Ruby, you know. I think she’s brilliant, but then you had to go and…forget it. Goodnight.”

                  As John disappeared, Sherlock wondered miserably if he had just lost his only friend.

 

                  Sherlock hadn’t expected to see John reading the classifieds the very next morning, however. He tried to hide the paper when Sherlock came down, but he wasn’t quick enough.

                  “You’re looking for a new flat,” Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice expressionless.

                  John swallowed. “Yes.” He paused. “I wasn’t going to tell you until after I found a place for sure, but I…I can’t do this anymore. What is mean is, maybe we need our own space. Between my job and my army pension, I should be able to afford a small place on my own. So. I think we’ll both be better off.”

                  Sherlock nodded stiffly and attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Right. Severed heads in the fridge and gunshots in the wall; I suppose I’m surprised you stayed as long as you did.”

                  “If you still want me on the cases with you, I’m more than game. I just can’t—“ John couldn’t torment himself anymore. He had to move on, to try and find someone else he could latch his affections onto. He realized now that he’d been doing that very thing during his entire residency at Baker Street, as evidenced by his string of failed relationships and bitter ex-girlfriends. “I can’t be what you want me to be, and you can never be what I—“ John stopped himself and finished, matter of factly, “I’ll let you know when I find a place.

                  John was exactly what he wanted him to be, Sherlock thought, but said nothing. He was hardly going to beg him to stay, not after John stated so clearly that it wasn’t what he wanted.

 

                  John moved out a couple weeks later and settled into a tiny flat in Islington, feeling much as he did when he came home from the war: alone and alienated. He abandoned his blog and picked up any extra shifts he could at the clinic, beginning to work fifty, sometimes sixty hours a week, despite the fact that he didn’t really care about the extra money. He checked his phone every day, just in case Sherlock needed him for a case, but there was never any terse message signed “SH” in his inbox.

 

                    Sherlock was growing bored. He had, one evening, when he was tired of talking to his skull, unearthed a long-buried bottle of opium pills, and had taken a couple to make the time go faster.

                  Within a week, Sherlock had lapsed back into an addiction. He didn’t go out anymore, not even to St. Bart’s. He spent hours on end lying on the sofa or plucking listlessly at his violin, feeling morose and stagnant.

                  He was lying on the sofa in this way when there was a knock on the flat door.

                  “Go ‘way, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock called out.

                  The doorknob turned slowly, then the door swung open and Molly Hooper stepped inside. “Erm…hi. I heard—I heard that John moved out, and I hadn’t heard anything from St. Bart’s, so I wanted to see if you were…okay.” She looked around the disheveled flat and pressed her lips together, taking in the unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke, the empty pill bottles and the full ashtrays littering the table, and Sherlock himself, who looked gaunt and unwell, lying glassy-eyed on the sofa.

                  “Ugh, I’m _fine_.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to push himself up, but decided it was too much work and settled for propping himself up on his elbows. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

                  “Probably.” But Molly didn’t move. She stood her ground and watched him. “You don’t look fine, Sherlock. You’re obviously _not_ fine. Why’re you…high right now?”

                  “I fail to see how that is any concern of yours, Molly. Now please. Leave. I’m _fine._ ”

                  He flopped back down and closed his eyes, resting his hands underneath his chin and listened, waiting intently for the sound of her retreating footsteps and the flat door closing, so that he could drift back into his hazy bubble and have a bit of peace.

                  Instead, he heard Molly step closer and lower herself to a sitting position. He irritably opened one eye and turned his head toward where she was kneeling to look at him at eye-level.

“You once told me you’ve always trusted me. So trust me when I say that ‘fine’ people don’t shut out the world and take opium for weeks on end. You’re depressed, and this isn’t helping.”

                  “Don’t draw conclusions about things you don’t understand, Molly. Go back to work and do something useful.”

                  “What happened, between you and John? Why’d he move out?”

                  “Go. Away,” Sherlock growled.

                  Molly slapped him spontaneously, then gasped, as surprised as Sherlock. “Sorry! But…but you can’t just shut me out like this. Now sit up!” Uncomfortable with the forced authority in her voice, she tacked on a more hesitant, “Please.”

                  Sherlock was shocked into obeying, struggling to a sitting position.

                  “Have you talked to John recently? Why did he leave?”

                  “He left of his own volition. It’s time we led our separate lives, and I intend to give him his space.”                 

                  “Well, it’s clearly making you miserable. And taking those pills isn’t going to make anything better, you know.”

                  Sherlock focused his eyes on her with mild difficulty. His voice dripped sarcasm. “And what _would_ make it better, _Doctor_ Hooper?”

                  Molly faltered for a moment. “Well for a start, getting dressed, dumping out those pills, and going outside for once. You haven’t shaved in days, you look like you’ve lost two stone, and you smell awful.”

                  Sherlock sniffed. “Well, look who’s the expert on self-care now. Do everyone a favour, Molly, and stop trying to fix people!” He pulled a pill bottle from his robe pocket, counting out another dose to take.

                  Molly was not deterred, however. She snatched the bottle from him and looked around for any more pills. She found two bottles with pills still in them, and snatched these up as well.

                  Sherlock tried to grab the bottles from her and growled, “Give. Them. _Back_.”

                  Molly hurried to the toilet, uncapping the bottles and dumping the pills down the toilet, then flushing them down. Sherlock feebly tried to stop her, then leaned against the doorframe and watched forlornly as the pills were flushed away. Molly turned back to him and gripped his shoulders.

                  “I know you think you need them but…you’re stronger than this. You’re…you’re one of the strongest people I know, and it just…I can’t bear to see you like this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at the floor dejectedly. “You need to leave.”

                  On the verge of tears, Molly squeezed Sherlock’s shoulders. “If you need anything, call me. Please.”

                  Sherlock didn’t watch her as she left.

 

                  John didn’t know how Molly Hooper had his phone number; she was the last person he’d expected to hear from. She described to him in detail Sherlock’s current state.

                  “I tried to help him but I think…I think he needs you, John.”

                  John swallowed. Of course he would go back. Even if it drove him crazy.

 

                  Sherlock answered the knock at his door with a cigarette in his hand and a blank expression on his face.

                  John stared at him. It had only been a month and a few days since he’d last seen him, but Sherlock looked so different, but even now John wanted him. Whatever John had prepared to say to him was lost, and he could only stare at him.

                  Sherlock stared back, blinking deliberately, as if not trusting his eyes that John was really there.

                  “What are you doing here?” he asked dully.

                  “Molly, she called, and I—“ John stared at him in a daze, fumbling for the things he wanted to articulate. He wanted to say that the past month had been miserable, that he wanted back in, that he wanted Sherlock in his life in whatever way it took. He wanted more than anything to say that he loved him, that he loved him more deeply than he’d thought it possible to love anyone. “I—I um…” John’s words were tangled and refused to come out. He finally mumbled, “Oh, sod it all,” and, in a swift movement, stepped forward, grabbed Sherlock’s neck, and pulled him down to kiss him.

                  Sherlock was completely taken aback and stumbled backwards, mouth open in shock. John wanted to hit himself. Stupid, _stupid_ move! Instead of repairing the friendship, he’d now most likely ruined it for good. John was about to apologize when Sherlock lunched back at him, dropping his cigarette and pressing his mouth against John’s, desperately grabbing him.

                  Sherlock’s lips collided with his, at first clumsily, but once they had a firm hold on each other, their lips slid into place and John felt a jolt of electricity course through him. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back, wanting him even closer.

                  Sherlock slammed the door behind them, and John pulled away long enough to say, “You started smoking again. Idiot,” before pressing his mouth back to Sherlock’s, pressing into him.

                  Sherlock fervently kissed him back, yanking John’s coat off, grabbing at his neck with both hands, pulling him closer.

                  Between kisses John demanded, “Why didn’t you—ever tell me? Why’d you _torture_ me like that? How long’ve you—“ He cut himself off and kissed Sherlock again.

                  Sherlock felt John’s mouth open, and he pushed his tongue into John’s mouth, tasting him and exploring. John moaned and pushed his tongue against Sherlock’s, making both of their pulses quicken.

                  “I didn’t know—“ Sherlock kissed John again, dragging him towards the bedroom. “And then—you pulled away—I thought you didn’t— _why didn’t you admit it?_ ”

                  John raked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, a bit forcefully. “You never gave me any sign!”

                  “I _kissed_ you!” Sherlock clawed his hands greedily down John’s back, wanting to touch every part of him at once.

                  “ _To prove a point!”_ John began yanking off Sherlock’s robe, letting it fall to the ground, then yanked Sherlock’s arms up and pushed his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to the ground as well. “Aren’t you supposed to be the _master of deduction_? How could you not tell that I’ve wanted you since _day one_?!”

Sherlock gave John such a piercing look that John lost all words and accusations, and he helped Sherlock in undoing the buttons to his shirt, his fingers shaking. Once he’d yanked it off, their pressed themselves together once more, shuddering as their bare torsos pressed against each other. The skin on skin contact was intoxicating, and words were lost as they fumbled at each other, clawing at each other’s hair, running hands down each other’s skin, yanking at belts and waistbands and finally tumbling into the bedroom.

                  They fell onto Sherlock’s bed, yanking off each other’s trousers, their legs becoming entangled and their mouths never straying far from each other’s.

                  “Top or bottom?” John asked, clamping his mouth back against Sherlock’s before he could answer.

                  Sherlock faltered. He knew the logistics of sex, even of gay sex, but he had no idea where to begin. “I’ll follow your lead,” he finally conceded, groping into John’s trousers to feel his hardened cock.

                  John’s breath caught and he raked his hands across Sherlock’s bum, kissing him again. “I want you inside of me.”

                  Sherlock nodded and feverishly began yanking off John’s trousers and pants, then his own. He knew what to do in theory, but he didn’t want to hurt him or make it unpleasant.

                  But John was already rolling over, getting on his hands and knees. “Please, Sherlock…”

                  Sherlock moved closer, then, running a hand up John’s back, asked breathily, “Don’t they usually use—lube for this kind of thing?”

                  “Yeah, but—just fucking do it, it’s fine,” John breathed, arching his back.

                  Sherlock pushed two fingers against the outside of John’s hole, the slowly pushed in, waiting for John’s muscles to stop spasming.

                  John gasped and tensed his back, but nodded for Sherlock to continue. He slowly spread his fingers, trying to stretch the opening a bit.

                  “F-fuck…Sherlock—“

                  “Are…are you….can I?” Sherlock worked his fingers in and out a bit.

                  John gasped. “God, yes.”

                  Sherlock shakily pressed himself up against John, wanting this more than ever thought he would. He gripped John’s sides and slowly pushed himself in, gasping as he did.

                  John felt _amazing_ around him. Sherlock had had _no_ idea. “Oh, God…” he murmured, then began slowly pushing in and out.

                  John met his thrusts as they found their rhythm, growing increasingly fast and forceful. It wasn’t going to take him long at all to come, he knew. He tried to hold out as long as he could, but then Sherlock hit his prostate and he nearly lost it.

                  Sherlock knew the prostate was a sensitive area, and he knew he’d hit the mark when John let out a strangled gasp of pleasure. That only spurred him on to thrust faster, grabbed John’s hips so he could angle himself the right way to hit John’s prostate again.                 

                  John was overwhelmed, delirious with pleasure and hardly able to believe that this was all really happening. He came with a strangled groan.

                  The intense pleasure that had been building up in Sherlock finally exploded, making his toes curl and his nails digging into John’s hips. “G-god! John—“

                  He wavered unsteadily on his knees, still gripping John, then slowly pulled out of him. John collapsed onto his stomach, catching his breath. He rolled over, wincing a bit. “Oh my God…”

                  Sherlock unsteadily crawled next to him and collapsed as well, unable to speak. John searched Sherlock’s eyes, then touched his arm, as if to make sure Sherlock was really there. He looked him up and down. Sherlock, naked, next to him in bed. This was really happening. “Had you ever…with a man?”

                  Sherlock shook his head, his breath finally evening out. “You know I hadn’t. You?”

                  “A couple times—in the army, but never…never like that.”

                  Sherlock raised his eyebrows and shifted to face the ceiling. “I’m surprised I hadn’t picked up on that earlier.”

                  He had just done something he’d told himself he never would. He had expected to feel upset with himself, but instead he felt a deep happiness bubbling inside of him. All this time…and it had always been John. It was so blatantly obvious now that he was astounded all of this hadn’t happened before.

                  He rolled back over towards John, pulling his face toward him and kissing him. “Never like that, hmm? I hope that’s a good thing.”

                  John cupped his face, running a hand along his cheekbone and down to his jaw. “It’s a fantastic thing.” He moved in to kiss Sherlock more deeply. “Would it be all right if I…moved back in?”

                  Sherlock barely let John finish his question before answering. “Yes.”

                  He sighed and traced a hand down John’s arm. “Please—don’t leave again.” He was embarrassed to beg, but he couldn’t bear the thought of John leaving, not now.

                  “Never again. Not so long as you want me here.”

                  Sherlock pulled him close and kissed him again, and murmured into his mouth, “Always. _Always_.”

                  John made an almost pained noise and was mortified to feel tears stinging his eyes, he was so happy. He burrowed his head into Sherlock’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around his back, pulling him as close as he could.

                  Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed John in, not realizing he had missed John’s smell until now. He pressed his cheek into John’s hair. “Don’t do that again. Don’t leave me, John.”

                  “I’m never going to leave you. Not ever.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

John closed his eyes and tilted his head as Sherlock moved his lips down his neck. He couldn’t believe this was really happening, that Sherlock was here in his arms.

                  Sherlock kissed the gunshot scar on John’s shoulder, fascinated by it, this piece of John that he had never been able to study before. “Why’d you pull away?”

                  “When? When you kissed me?”

                  “Yes.”

                  “You said you wanted to prove that I was in love with you. I couldn’t let you know…I was positive you didn’t feel that way.”

                  “You were wrong,” Sherlock said, watching him. “And you left because…why? You felt tormented by me? That you couldn’t have me?”

                  John nodded. Sherlock had, naturally, deduced absolutely correctly. Why hadn’t he figured it out earlier?

                  Sherlock held John closer and admitted quietly, “Well, you can have me.”

                  John’s face broke into a smile, and he caught Sherlock’s chin with his hand and kissed him. “Promise me one thing, though. That we won’t go on dates. I’m notoriously rubbish at them…unless crime scenes and late-night Chinese food count as dates. Those’re fine.”

                  “I find that plan completely acceptable.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, letting his hands slide down his lower back.

                  “Glad we’re on the same page,” John mumbled into his mouth. “For once.” He sighed and looked at the disarray of the room. “Maybe…maybe we should get up—“ he suggested reluctantly.

                  “Mmm,” Sherlock grunted, rolling out of bed and standing unabashedly nude in front of John. He wore his skin like a well-tailored suit, and John couldn’t help admiring him in the late-afternoon light.

                  He tore his eyes away and rolled out of bed himself. “This whole flat smells like it needs a thorough cleaning—been keeping Mrs. Hudson out?”

                  Sherlock smiled at the doctor, who was looking around for his pants. “I didn’t have anyone to keep it clean for.”

                  “Have a bit of self-respect. Time to play ‘follow the trail of clothes,’” John muttered, gathering up his socks and trousers.                  

                  Sherlock went to his wardrobe for the first time in weeks to find clothes that weren’t pyjamas, and John pulled on the clothes he already had.

                  When he left the flat with a long kiss, it was mutually understood that he would be back with boxes of his things.

 

                  Sherlock helped him unpack when he came back with his few belongings. John would keep his things in his bedroom, to give them both some space, but as he glanced down at his bed, he wondered if he would be sleeping in it very much anymore.

                  Sherlock pulled out jumper after jumper from the boxes. “I think 58% of your luggage is dominated by jumpers,” he noted, stopping to breathe one in before he tossed it on the bed with the others. “You can tell a lot about a person by cataloguing the contents of their wardrobe.”

                  “Oh, but you were never able to deduce how I felt about you from all the insights you gathered from that tie index you made?” John asked sarcastically.

                  “Ooh, so many insults. Whatever happened to ‘fantastic!’ and ‘amazing!’?” Sherlock asked.

                  “I will never insult your skills on a case,” John said, pulling out his laptop and setting it on his desk. “Only your skills at recognizing love.”

                  “Sorry, I haven’t got a string of lovers like you with your ‘ladykiller charm’ and army-doctor-captain-rank-pulling..” he floundered for a word. “Sexiness.”

                  John grinned. “Sexiness? So all this time when you’ve been calling me vertically challenged, it was really code for ‘get on me, you sexy army doctor’? How did I miss _that_?”

                  He was pleased to see Sherlock look a bit flustered, a state he rarely saw him in, “No— _no_. I was merely…commenting on your height—not that I care how tall you are.” He huffed, irritated. “Never mind. It’s irrelevant.”

                  “Oh. So you _don’t_ think I’m sexy.” John grinned cheekily.

                  “I _didn’t_ say—Oh _shut up_ , John.”

                  Amused, John stepped so that they were toe-to-toe and tilted his face up to Sherlock’s.

“You can’t bring yourself to say it, can you? ‘I’m Sherlock Holmes, I don’t find people attractive, I’m too _cool_ to admit how I feel.’”

                  “I never said that.” Sherlock frowned down at him, and John put his hands on Sherlock’s hips.

                  “I know—that was me making fun of you.”  

                  “Oh, so we can add ‘comedian’ to the list now? John Watson: Army captain, doctor, bachelor and comedian?”           

            “I’m a jack of all trades,” John laughed.

                  “Hm. Clearly.” Sherlock dipped his head to kiss him, savoring the feel and taste of John’s lips, both of which were entirely unique sensations that he found himself growing increasingly addicted to.

                  John sighed into his mouth, pulling Sherlock closer by his hips, but they both pulled away when a churning engine noise began, growing louder and louder. It sounded like it was coming from directly downstairs.

                  “Is that--?” John

                  They leapt apart and hurried down the steps to the living room, where the TARDIS now stood, impossibly, between the fireplace and the sofa.

                  The Doctor popped his head out. “What do you think you’re _doing_?!” Sherlock demanded. “ _Parking_ that thing in here? You could’ve landed on one of us! And _where have you been_?!”

                  “You need to have a bit more faith in the TARDIS, Sherlock Holmes! She’s never landed on anyone—well, just the once. But honestly, he deserved it.” The Doctor grinned and surveyed the living room, then his smile faltered a bit as he took in the cluttered flat that was still overrun by ashtrays and stacks of file folders. “Am I bit late?” He checked his watched and tapped on it.

                  “Yeah, by about two months,” John said, disbelieving. He’d almost forgotten about the Doctor.

                  “Have you not grasp of the concept of ‘being on time’?” Sherlock demanded.

                  “That’s a very inaccurate phrase, being ‘on’ time. You can’t— _perch_ on time like a bird on a twig, you can only be in it, and being in it means being rather tangled,” the Doctor rambled, checking his watch again. “Am I really two months late? At any rate, I’m fairly certain I discovered why you two don’t make any sense.”

                  Sherlock rolled his eyes, growing impatient. “Well, what is it, then?”

                  The Doctor’s face looked grave, those deep-set eyes in his young face looking very old. “I can’t tell you. I really very sorry. Stay together when the angels come. And—never thought I’d say this—make sure you blink!”

                  Sherlock couldn’t decide what was more irritating about the Doctor—the fact that he was impossible to deduce anything from, or the fact that he spouted nonsense every time he flapped his mouth. “You _can’t_ tell us, or you _won’t_? What do you mean ‘when the angels come’? Is that some sort of code? An organization?”

                  John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “You told us you would tell us, Doctor. Why did you bother showing up if you can’t say anything at all?” he asked.                 

                  “I’ve told you what matters,” the Doctor said, then looked between them and sighed. “You’re not going to like it if I tell you.”

                  “Try me,” Sherlock said icily.

                  “Mind if I sit?”

                  Sherlock waved to a seat, annoyed, then sat himself in his chair.

                  The Doctor sat across from him and John leaned his back on the mantel, arms folded. “I said before that you two didn’t make sense, that your lives were in the wrong time. I was wrong—sort of. This place that we are now, it’s sort of a pocket in the universe.” Apparently unable to sit, the Doctor rose and began pacing, rattling off, “Like a secret pocket full of histories about to be rewritten. Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey, and all that.”

                  “What’s he on about?” John muttered, leaning towards Sherlock.

                  Sherlock told the Doctor, “I don’t follow.”

                  “…and I don’t know if you _will_ follow, because if I disclose any more it could...rip a hole in the pocket and then, well, what happens with a pocket hole? All the loose coins and keys and bits of string and whatever it is you put in your pockets falls out. Bear with me!” He said, raising a hand as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

                  “You were born in the late 1970s, grew up here, moved to London,”

                  “I’m well aware of my life history,” Sherlock interjected.

                  “--But then you will have a run-in with creatures that send you back to permanently live in Victorian London, thus rewriting history. So this is draft one, so to speak: you’re seeing a London that won’t exist when you disappear, because you—both of you—will be famous historical and literary characters from a century before. And this is one of those fixed points in time that _must_ happen, or, as I said…rip in the pocket of the universe and everything goes a bit mad, or madder than usual…”

                  Sherlock watched him in sick fascination as he explained this impossible theory. “You’re mad,” he said.

                  “I told you that you wouldn’t like it. Now, if my calculations are correct…” The Doctor glanced at his watch again. “You should be getting a call soon. Make sure you talk to Arthur Conan Doyle. He’ll be very interested in your stories. Try not to be too…modern with the details. And good luck.”

                  Sherlock glared up at him, pressing his fingertips together. “Creatures. The angels? You think that… _angels_ are going to come and transport us back in time where we will be stuck for the rest of our lives.”  

                  “Yes! Exactly! The angels feed off your energy and send you back into the past so you can live yourself to death. Inconvenient, of course, to start all over, but with you two together…well you’ll get by. I _know_ you do!”

                  “No. This is ridiculous. Insane. It’s illogical. If that _was_ the case, then, in theory, we would’ve already been sent back in time and the museum would be here. The books would be here, but they aren’t.”

                  “Pocket universe, remember?” The Doctor said amiably. “You have to meet the angels before you get sent back in time. And you _have_ to meet them. And you will.” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. “It’s been fantastic, it really has. Sherlock and Dr. Watson in the TARDIS.”

                  Sherlock rose, baffled and furious, as the Doctor strolled over to his TARDIS and stepped in, ignoring John’s “wait!” and closing the door.

                  John and Sherlock watched in disbelief as the box dematerialized from their living room, the wind rustling the papers on Sherlock’s desk, then the engine noise faded and teh papers stilled, and there was no trace that the TARDIS had ever been there.

                  They stood in dumb silence for a moment.

                  “What—what did he mean?” John finally asked.

                  He was visibly shaken, Sherlock noted, an unusual characteristic for the stalwart doctor. He felt just as uneasy as he stared at the space where the TARDIS had been.

                  “I think he means we had better start saying goodbye.” He shook himself out of his daze and began pacing furiously.  “But his logic doesn’t even make sense! Don’t you see? If we were shot back in time right now—that would mean that we _already_ existed in the 1800s. It means we’ve already grown old and died. It means that Conan Doyle should already have written the books. If this is the case, our lives should be on a loop. We start our lives here, then go back there, time goes on, we die, then we are born again here in the 70s then are sent back again! We would only live once, but if we are sent back, then us living there has already _happened_ —in which case the books should already be written! It doesn’t match up. It’s not cohesive.”

                  “Right. But didn’t the Doctor say were in some kind of…parallel time…pocket thing? Like an alternative universe? So if we go back we, I dunno, close up the pocket or something?” John groaned in frustration. “I’m getting a headache just thinking about this! _None_ of this is possible!”                 

                  “I need a break,” Sherlock said. “This is—“

                  Sherlock’s phone rang. “Don’t answer that. You’re right, you need a break,” John said, crossing over to him. “You also need some nourishment. You look like one of those mistreated POWs. Let me fix you something.”

                  Sherlock looked at the unknown number ringing out on his phone. The Doctor had known someone would call. He dreaded answering, but was filled with curiosity. He settled by tossing the phone onto the sofa, glaring at it until it stopped ringing.

                  John brought Sherlock a toasted sandwich, the pinnacle of his cooking abilities, and brushed his hand against Sherlock’s as he gave him the plate. “Eat something, or you _will_ faint.”

                  Sherlock grudgingly bit into the sandwich, sinking onto the sofa. He turned what teh Doctor had said over and over in his mind. “I would say it’s impossible—but we’ve seen that time travel is possible. …Whatever remains, however improbable…must be the truth,” he muttered to himself.

                  John sank down next to him. “Angels, though?” He couldn’t help but laugh. He had to—it was all so absurd.

                  Sherlock polished off his sandwich and laced his fingers together. “Keep together…and blink—what sort of instructions are those?” He frowned.

                  John touching Sherlock’s chin and tilted his face toward him. “Well, whatever’s coming for us—blue boxes or time-stealing angels or psychotic murderers…we’ll be together. Right?”

                  “Right,” Sherlock said gravely, meeting John’s eyes, then slowly leaned in to kiss him, grateful for some distraction from all of this.

                  John kissed him back eagerly, wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s sides and feeling his prominent ribcage. “Did you eat at _all_ while I was gone?”

                  Sherlock closed his eyes as John’s lips moved to his neck, slowly kissing up to his ear.

“Hardly…I didn’t have any reason to.”

                  “You’ve really got to stop these self-destructive tendencies…they’re not at all attractive.” John licked at Sherlock’s ear, biting it lightly, moved up to kiss his mouth again.

                  “From the results I’m getting, I find that hard to believe,” Sherlock murmured, moving a hand up to tangle in John’s hair. “And John…the attraction is mutual.”

                  John pulled away slowly. “Stop it…you’re making me blush.”

                  Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I know I am. It’s very cute.”

                  John shoved him lightly, mock-offended. “I’m not _cute_ , I’m ruggedly handsome—a ladykiller. Obviously.”

                  “And a consulting detective killer, too. Although I hope never in the literal sense,” Sherlock said, giving John a light kiss before disentangling himself and standing up.

                  “Mm, I lucked out, then,” John said, stretching. He felt exhausted. Too much had happened in the last 48 hours.

                  “You really did. I’m quite the catch. Intelligent and sexy, as I’ve been told by multiple sources.”

                  “And so modest,” John grinned, rolling his eyes and stood, grabbing the sandwich plate.                   Sherlock unfastened his violin case. He hadn’t played all month, other than some halfhearted sawing for a couple minutes at a time. “Being humble doesn’t suit me. Why would I have any desire to parade around acting like a moron, when I’m clearly not?”

                  “There’s a nice wide space between being an arrogant dick and ‘parading around like a moron.’ But you want to know something?” John crossed behind where Sherlock was sitting and wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

                  “Hm?”

                  “I kind of like it when you’re an arrogant dick,” he murmured into Sherlock’s ear, then kissed behind his ear as Sherlock began tuning his violin.

                  Sherlock closed his eyes as John’s lips brushed against his chin. Was this what it felt like to be adored? It was entirely engrossing. He would have to be careful, or it could consume him. He’d kept away from love for that very reason. Now, however, he was beginning to think the risk was worth the feeling of happiness that bubbled up inside him whenever John was near.

                  “ Good…because I’m not going to just stop being myself because you think I’m a ‘dick.’”

                  John straightened, hands resting on Sherlock’s shoulders. “I don’t think you’re a dick, you _are_ a dick. That didn’t stop me from falling for you immediately.”

                  Sherlock set down his violin and tightened the hairs of his bow. “Choosing to utilize my intellectual prowess doesn’t make me a dick. I can’t help that the vast majority of people are idiots.”

                  “No, but blatantly insulting people to their face does,” John snorted. “Why do I bother nagging you to behave?”

                  “It’s beyond me, it’s a waste of our breath,” Sherlock said, and both men smiled.

                  “Sherlock, be honest,” John said after a moment, crossing to stand in front of Sherlock, who was now beginning to play out a slow, sad melody. “The whole angels thing…you don’t really buy, it do you?”

                  “Impossible to say, John,” Sherlock said, never faltering from his music. “But with all that’s happened in the past few months, I think it would be very unwise to rule it out as a possibility.”

 

                  The next morning, Sherlock woke up curled around John. He checked his phone on the dresser for the time, but it had died during the night, so he slipped out of bed with minimal movement so as not to wake John.

                  When John came out twenty minutes later, there was a steaming mug of tea waiting for him. “You made me tea?” He sniffed it, remembering the only other time Sherlock had served him a beverage. “There’s no hallucinogenic sugar in here, is there?” he teased.

                  Sherlock wasn’t listening. He was frowning at his phone. “Three voicemails, John—“

                  Without further explanation he tossed the phone to John, and John listened to each of the messages, each from the same woman.

                  In the first message, her voice was chipper.

                  “Hello, Mr. Holmes! I got your number off the website, and thought you could help me. These statues appeared in my house—I didn’t have them ordered or delivered, they were just—there. I asked around and nobody knows where they came from. Nobody saw anyone deliver them. And the thing is, they’re quite big. Two big stone angels in my living room...they give me the creeps, actually. Sorry, my name’s Charlotte, Charlotte Hayle. If you can help, please call back.” She gave her address, some Brixton apartment complex called Barrington Arms, and her phone number before the message ended.

                  John continued to the next one, which came a few hours later. “Charlotte again. Sorry to bother, but I’m beginning to think I’m going a bit mad, and the police won’t listen. They think I’m crazy—but I hear you deal with crazy cases. _Please_ call me back. It’s like—it’s like they’ve been moving on their own. They used to be covering their eyes—now one is turned toward the window, as if looking out. Please call me back. _End of message._ ”

                  The next message sounded even more desperate, from a few minutes later. “I’ve left the flat—I can’t bear to go in there. I keep trying to get the police interested, but they’re ignoring me. The angels, the stone angels—they keep moving, Mr. Holmes. Please, if you can help, call me back. Again, this is Charlotte Hayle. _End of message._ ”

                  John blinked in disbelief as he listened. There was real fear in this woman’s voice. She didn’t sound like a mad person in the least. “Angels,” was all he managed to say before the phone rang in John’s hand. He looked at the number. Lestrade.

                  John handed the phone to Sherlock, who answered it. “Yes.”

                  “Sherlock, we’re a bit baffled here—there’ve been six disappearances from Barrington Arms in Brixton, and the witness accounts are telling us nothing. Would you mind popping round? I’ll text you the address.”

                  “No need,” Sherlock said, excitement creeping into his voice. “I’ll be there immediately.”

                  John was already grabbing his coat. “A case? Where?”

                  “Brixton, the very place Charlotte called from.” Sherlock yanked on his coat as well. “Six disappearances, right where she saw a bunch of stone angels.”

                  “Oh God…” John groaned.

                  Sherlock grinned manically. “Ready for our first date, Doctor Watson?”


	8. Chapter 8

                  Lestrade was outside Barrington Arms to greet them when Sherlock and John got out of their cab. “Sherlock, you’re not going to believe what we found up there—“

                  “Spooky stone angels?” Sherlock asked Lestrade dully. Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock cut him off. “Woman named Charlotte Hayle left me three voicemails. My question is, is the police force so incompetent that they don’t investigate the strange appearance of large statues that are causing someone sincere distress?”

                  “Well, it’s not very believable, is it?” Lestrade countered. “Weird stone angels moving-“

                  “Charlotte, then, she’s one of the missing people?”

                  Lestrade nodded. “All six were residents of Barrington Arms, and they just _vanish._ No witnesses have seen anything suspicious, we haven’t come up with a single clue—“ Lestrade ran his hand through his hair, visibly frazzled. “Anyway, if you wanted a look at the statues, there’s one up in number 21.”

 

                  “Do you really think this is a good idea, Sherlock?” John whispered as they followed Lestrade up the stairs to the apartment.

                  “I think it best that we know what we’re dealing with,” Sherlock murmured back.

                  Sally appeared outside the door, eyeing Sherlock. “Haven’t seen _you_ lately, freak. Come out of hiding?”

                  “Sally,” Sherlock said curtly. “You’ve talked to other flat residents, I presume. Have any of them seen anyone move the statues?”

                  “No. They’ll be in one place one day and one place another, and nobody knows where they came from. Whoever’s moving them must be quite—“ she pushed into the flat and stared at an empty corner. “I was just—just here three minutes ago.” She checked the door number again. “How is that—“ Sally turned and jumped, clutching her chest, as she saw the statue standing in the narrow corridor of the flat, near the toilet. “How did it get there?”

                  Sherlock rushed in to examine the large stone angel, its wings folded and its head buried in its hands, as if it were weeping. He touched it hesitantly. It was stone, absolutely. The entirety of it was stone. How could a stone _move_ on its own?

                  “How many statues are there? Have you gotten an accurate count with all of the moving around?”

                  “The most seen at any given time is four, from what residents have told them.” Lestrade looked at it with interest. “It is a bit eerie, isn’t it? It’d look more fitting in a cemetery.”

                  Sherlock stared at the angel in bafflement. The Doctor had told them to blink. He’d told them that the angels would take their energy and send them back to the past. Setting aside the absurdity of it all, Sherlock considered it as if it could actually happen.

                  “The statues move only when nobody’s looking, right?” He clarified. “None of the residents has seen on actually move on its own?”

                  “Well, of course they don’t move on their own, freak, they’re _stone_ ,” Sally scoffed.

                  “Yes, astute logic, Sally, but tell me how this enormous stone statue moved a full twenty feet in the three minute space since you saw it last,” Sherlock said. “Let’s entertain the impossible for a few moments.” He turned his attention back to the angel, studying every inch of it. He would love to circle behind it, but it took up the entire narrow hallway. “Assuming they move on their own, but only when other people aren’t looking—what if—ahhh,” he murmured to himself, then stared up at the angel’s covered face. “What if we were all to take our eyes off it—to blink, even for just a moment—what would happen?”

                  “Sherlock—don’t,” John said. The idea of statues moving on their own was absurd, but he had no mind to try and test Sherlock’s theory, especially after what the Doctor had told them.

                  “That’s it, then,” Sherlock murmured. “You take your eyes away, you blink—then they take you. Make you vanish.”

                  He rounded on Lestrade. “Box these statues up and have them destroyed.”

                  “That seems a bit extreme. Why? We haven’t found any reason to believe the statues are dangerous.”

 **“** Listen to him, Lestrade. Get everyone out of here, away from these things,” John said.

                  “Destroy the statues and your disappearances will stop,” Sherlock said again. He looked uneasily back at the statue before turning to John. “We should go.”

                  “But what about the disappearances?” Lestrade called after them as they headed down the stairs. “Where did the people go?”

                  “Don’t bother looking for them, Lestrade! Destroy the angels!” Sherlock called before he and John were out the door.

 

                  “He knew,” John said back in the flat. “The Doctor knew about the angels. _That’s_ what’s going to come for us? Some pieces of stone are going to whisk us into the past?”

                  “It’s absurd, but John, it all fits.” Sherlock was perched in his chair, tapping his fingers together. He snorted. “Can you imagine actually _living_ in Victorian London?”

                  “Medicine was certainly dodgy,” John said. “Imagine if I were a doctor then! I’d be amazing—decades beyond anyone else. Not that it will ever happen. It won’t.”

                  Sherlock raised an eyebrow and murmured quietly, “I’m not so certain anymore.”

                  “Oh, come off it! Listen to yourself. We’re not going to go living in the past—the Doctor told us about the angels, and now that we know how they take people, we can avoid them. What if we were meant to go today? We’ve already changed history.”

            “I don’t think we’ve seen the last of them, John,” Sherlock said. “The Doctor rattled on about holes in the pockets. He was set on sending us back. It seems—inevitable. The only good thing that I can see from all of this is that it would seem that even if someone is sent back, this world continues as is. It doesn’t pivot specifically around the existence of any specific being. If we get winked out of existence, at least that doesn’t mean there will be some sort of apocalypse here. Everyone will just keep on living. We’ll just be gone.”

                  That was a sobering thought. If he and Sherlock disappeared, there would be no closure, no explanation. At least with death there was finality, there was closure. When people disappeared, there was that constant feeling of waiting, of uncertainty. There were few people that John was close to, but he would hate to put those he was close to through that.

                  “We’d become a cold case,” Sherlock mused, as if reading John’s thoughts. He let out a long sigh and finally said, “It might be the most logical thing to…say goodbyes now. Just to be on the safe side.”

                  John stared at him for a moment. Sherlock spoke with such calmness. “How can you be so calm about this? How does it not bother you, that we could disappear from our friends’ lives? From our families? God, what am I supposed to tell Harry? We never did get on, but I’m the only immediate family she’s got. Am I supposed to ring her up and say, ‘Hi, sis, just so you know, I might disappear into the past, so if you don’t hear from me, it’s because I’m in 1895. Ta!’”

                  Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John, his voice still level. “Will throwing a fit save us? Will worrying change the outcome at all?”

                  “I am _not_ throwing a fit,” John said, agitatedly standing up. “I just don’t know how I’m supposed to say goodbye to people! How can I do it without it being perplexing and upsetting for them? God, I can’t think about this right now.”

                  The thought of saying goodbye to everything and everyone he knew was too much, and seeing Sherlock sitting calmly in his chair only set him on edge all the more. “You can sit here and—calculate all you want. Honestly, someone should do a Turing test on you,” John muttered, going to grab his laptop and engrossing himself in a shallow blog to get his mind off things.                 

                  Sherlock didn’t respond to John’s words, even though they bruised. He stayed in his chair and thought. When he came to bed that night, John was lying awake on his side.

                  “I’m not calm, John,” he said from the doorway. “I just don’t know what to do.” Sherlock looked around his bedroom, memorizing it.

                  John turned his head to look at him. “There must be a way out of this. What if we smash the angels to bits? What if we don’t blink?”

                  “The average person can only go without blinking for an average of one minute,” Sherlock said, unbuttoning his shirt and hanging it back up.

                  “We could…take turns. Look, who’s to say this is some big inevitable thing? I got out of Afghanistan alive, you miraculously faked your death. All we’ve been through—we’re not going to be whisked off and stranded by some bloody figures of stone!”

                  Sherlock smiled to himself at John’s optimism as he threw on a t-shirt. He never gave up. His stalwart friend. He was glad to have him with him, despite everything.

                  “Still, I think it would be wisest to prepare, in case the Doctor’s predictions are right,” Sherlock reasoned, tossing on pyjama pants and sliding into bed.

                  “So what do we do?”

                  Sherlock stared at the ceiling. “We tell people we’re going to die—or that one of us is dying. That way they know we’re gone and won’t bother looking for us.”

                  John looked over at him in alarm. “Sherlock…I know how you _think_ people react at death, but people will care. They’ll have questions, they’ll want to stop it.”

                  “People will have questions no matter _what_ we say, John. Death is the tidiest way. And, in the long run, the least emotionally taxing.”

                  As callous as it sounded, John knew he was right. “We can’t both ‘die’ at the same,” he pointed out. “Nobody would believe that.”

                  “Right, so one of us will be dying, and then the other will be moving out of the country for a fresh start. Not the tidiest of endings, but it’s perhaps the most realistic one we could develop. So, I can be the one that dies. I have experience in that field.”

                  “Not funny.”

                  “I’m thinking a heart condition, but Mycroft would see through that immediately—there’s no history of heart problems in our family. There’s always the possibility of a brain tumor or aneurysm.”

                  John shook his head, unable to believe they were having this conversation. “We say goodbye and then…we just give in?”

                  “We could tell them and still try to avoid the angels. Who knows? I could have a ‘miraculous recovery,’” he snorted. “So, then. Aneurysm would be easiest. They can go off at any time, but they don’t have an expiration date.”

                   “Although if we managed to fend the angels off and stay here, you might have to put up with people walking on eggshells around you for the rest of your life,” John pointed out.

                  “Ugh. Sounds unbearable,” Sherlock grimaced. “Still, it’s likely our best bet. I’ll need you to fake a scan. Mycroft will want evidence. Think you can get us into an MRI room?”

 

                  The next day, John and Sherlock had snuck their way into the MRI room at St. Bart’s, locking the door behind them.

                  At first John had suggested they just find another a scan of a patient with an aneurysm and change the name on the chart, but Sherlock had insisted on having his brain scanned and superseding another scanned image of an aneurysm onto it, on the basis that “Mycroft would know” if the scanned brain wasn’t his. John hadn’t asked questions.

                  “Nothing magnetic, absolutely nothing,” John said, pulling Sherlock towards him and unbuckling his belt. “Anything else magnetic on you?”

                  Sherlock handed him his phone, then lay down on the table.

                  As John began the MRI, he explained, “The image will take a while to process. In the meantime, I’ll look through the database and find a good aneurysm for you. Keep still in there.”

                  Sherlock clenched his jaw and closed his eyes against the bright white surroundings. He had always hated hospitals, hated being reminded of the frailty his human body. What if John actually found something? The prospect of his own mind turning on him was one of his darkest fears. It was a long thirty minutes before John was finally done scanning.

                  When the MRI was finished and the image had processed, John pulled him over to look. “Here’s your brain. Looks healthy from what I can tell, although this isn’t really my area.” Sherlock couldn’t help breathe a sigh of relief.

                  “Your frontal lobes are unusually large.” John rolled his eyes. “But then they _would_ be. Oh, and look, no amygdala,” he joked.

                  “Ha,” Sherlock said dryly.

                  “And I found a passable scan that we should be able to—“

                  There was a rattle at the door handle, then a loud knocking at the door. A muffled voice called, “Who’s in there?”

                  “Shit.” John hurriedly sent the image to the scanner in the next room and shut down the computer. “Shit, shit, I’m in trouble.”

                  “Sorry about this, John,” Sherlock said, then punched John in the stomach, not hard, but hard enough to illicit a loud groan, doubling him over. Sherlock quickly mussed his hair with his hands, untucked his shirt, pinched his cheeks to redden them, then smacked John’s arse, hissing, “ _Stand up!_ ” before he opened the door.

                  “Sorry about that,” he said bashfully, not meeting the doctor’s eye. He turned and jerked a head to the still bent and panting John, indicating him to get going.

                  “Oh—erm—“ The doctor looked at John with some shock and embarrassment. She muttered, “Just wanted to know who was in here,” the hurried off.

                  “I am going to kill you,” John panted, his face bright red, then he laughed. “Well. Shall we?”

                  They grabbed the printed scans of Sherlock’s brain, then John spun into an office. “Marlene! DO you have Dietrich Pendanski’s file? I need to make some comparisions for an MRI.”

                  “I didn’t think you did MRIs, Doctor Watson.

                  “I’m running a favor for Dr. Filton. He requested the scan,” John said.

                  Marlene eyed him a bit suspiciously, but retrieved the file all the same. “Bring it back as soon as you’re finished.”

 

                  It only took an overlay of the two brain scans and a rescan to create a fairly passable new scan that made it look like Sherlock had a prominent aneurysm. “That should fool Mycroft,” John said as they hurried out the hospital doors and into the busy London street. “I hope you’re happy. Now everyone here is going to think I’m a big gay slut,” John muttered as he handed the finished scan to Sherlock.                 

                  “At least you’re not an unemployed ‘gay slut,’” Sherlock commented.

                  “Yeah, cheers for that. It was good thinking,” John said. “But I might be unemployed if they find out I took an MRI for kicks. MRIs are rather expensive. But you know what?” He stopped, looking around the street. “I don’t really care. I feel like I have a terminal illness myself. Like I’ve stopped caring what other people think.”

                  Sherlock stopped and looked at him in amusement, then was taken off guard as John pulled on his coat lapels, yanking his head down for a kiss as people walked by gawking.

                  “Do you get that feeling?” John asked as he pulled away. “That you could just—say whatever you want?”

                  “I say whatever I want all the time,” Sherlock pointed out, then added sardonically, “I believe you called that ‘being a dick.’”

                  They continued walking, their knuckles brushing against each other’s as their steps synchronized.

                  “When do you plan on telling Mycroft?”

                  “I won’t be,” Sherlock said.

                  “But the scans--!”

                  “You’ll tell him, John,” Sherlock said. “He would never believe me if I told him in person.”

                  John considered this, finding it surprising. Even though it was Mycroft, surely Sherlock wanted some sort of face-to-face closure. He bit back his questions about it, however and asked a different one. “And how are we going to tell Mrs. Hudson?”

                  “God, she’s going to be unbearable...”

 

                  Mrs. Hudson did indeed take the news of Sherlock’s “aneurysm” hard. There were many tears and awkward hugs, John doing his best to console her as Sherlock awkwardly hugged her back.                 

                  Once Mrs. Hudson had bustled off to the kitchen, brushing tears from her face, Sherlock ordered John to call Mycroft. John reluctantly agreed, and Mycroft agreed to send a car around, which took John to Diogenes Club.

                  A man showed him to a room where Mycroft was waiting and they could talk freely. “What has he done now?” Mycroft asked, motioning for John to sit down.

                  “I’ll make this brief,” John said. Lying to Mycroft wouldn’t be easy in any scenario; lying to him about his brother’s future was all the more challenging. John had protested against doing it, but Sherlock had remained confident in his abilities. “You brother has a brain aneurysm. We don’t know if it’s fatal, but there’s a definite chance that it could…cause a severe blood clot and kill him…at any time.” John cleared his thought. “So. He wanted to you to know. You know, in case.”

                  The faint righteous look that was permanently etched on Mycroft’s face disappeared and he set down the glass of Scotch he’d been holding. He grasped for words for a moment, looking down at his shoes, then back up to John, his voice level. “I’ll want to see the scans, obviously. …I presume he doesn’t know you’re here, otherwise he could elect to tell me himself.”

                  “He didn’t want me to tell you, but I thought you should know.” That’s what Sherlock had told John to say. It would be the most believable thing, he said. John pulled out the MRI scan and handed it over.

                  Mycroft studied the spastic lines sprawling over his brother’s brain. “And there’s no treatment?” he said, finally handing it back to John.

                  “There’s medication to help with the headaches, but there’s always a risk of clotting, and surgery’s just not an option.” John was finding it extraordinarily difficult to look Mycroft in the eye, but reasoned that if the situation was real, he’d find it hard anyway. “I’m sorry, Mycroft.”

                  The older Holmes brother leaned back in the leather chair and crossed on leg over the other, steepling his fingers. His voice was soft when he asked, “You’ll inform me if…anything happens?”

                  “…I might not be around to. It’s complicated, but Sherlock’s made requests for me to…go somewhere should he…die.” John was alarmed to find himself growing emotional, even though he knew Sherlock wasn’t really sick.

                  To his surprise, Mycroft didn’t question it. He only nodded and said, “If either of you need anything—“ He nodded again, unable to finish his sentence, then stood up. “If that will be all, I’ve got business to tend to. The car will take you back.”

                  Before John reached the door, Mycroft added, “Thank you for telling me.” He paused. “Take care of him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my Mycroft feels.


	9. Chapter 9

The next night, John called Harry, who asked lots of questions, accusing him of being very vague. It frustrated him that he couldn’t get more specific, but he’d had to leave it as it was.

                  “I’m just saying, if I disappear…don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Also, I love you."

                  “Are you on drugs? Are you in the MI5?” she demanded.

                  John had given up and hung up eventually, but he felt better knowing that he’d at least talked to her.

                  As he hung up, he paced over to the window, looking out at the rainy street, and his heart gave a terrified lurch.

                  “JESUS!” He stumbled back from the window. “An angel, Sherlock! A stone angel, on the sidewalk below us! Oh my God.”

                  Sherlock sprung to his feet and dashed to the window to look, his breath catching. “Don’t blink, John, keep your eyes fixed on it.” He muttered to himself, “Think… think think think…they can’t move while you’re watching them…would a recording device count as eyes? The assassin’s camera is still in the drawer…I could set it up…if it get’s into the room…it would be stuck…right?”

                  John’s eyes were already beginning to strain. “Sherlock, what happens if I blink? It’s way down there—how’s I going to move in an eighth of a second?”

                  “ I don’t know, but if it is able to get here from Brixton only when no one is looking at it, I don’t want to underestimate it. Unless it’s a new one.” There was a chilling thought. He realized, of course, that they had no idea how many angels were out there. There had been the four in Brixton, but there were stone angels all over the place, in cemeteries, on churches… “Tell me if you need to blink and I’ll trade off with you for a bit.”

                  He whirled over to his desk and pulled the small security camera from the drawer, fixing it to the bookshelf and hooking it up to his computer to create a live stream of the living room.

                  “What happens in the morning when everyone’s out on the streets again? Then it won’t be able to move at all, and we can, I dunno, smash it or something.” John’s eyes watered as he continued to stare down at it, wide-eyed. The morning was ages away.

                  “No need to wait until morning,” Sherlock said. “One of us will stay here and watch, the other can go down and try to dismantle it.” He strode over to the fireplace and grabbed a fire poker. It was hardly ideal, but it was a start. He stepped over to stare at it, giving John time to blink. “Ready for another go? I’ll head down. We can switch off.”

                  John watched as Sherlock appeared in the darkened street. Sherlock raised the fire poker and brought it down on the angel’s face, hitting it over and over again, with increasing force and frustration. From what John could see, he hadn’t made a single crack or crumble.

                  “Shit,” John muttered.

                  He heard Sherlock stomp up the stairs and burst into the room, growling. “The thing’s indestructible!” he growled. “I couldn’t even scratch it.”

                  “So what do we do?” John asked desperately. “We can’t watch it forever.”

                  “We could run,” Sherlock said. “Hail a cab, keep our eyes on it until we’re well away. Not a permanent solution, of course.” But it was the only one he could think of at the moment.

                  Sherlock disappeared downstairs, then when John saw that he had his eyes fixed on the angel, he grabbed his coat and headed down, flagging a cab as fast as he could.

                  They watched it through the back window as the cab took off. “Where to?” asked the cabbie.

                  “Where can we go?” John asked.

                  “St. Bart’s, please,” Sherlock instructed the driver. With any luck, Molly would still be there working.

                  “How did they follow us? _Why_ are they following us?” John wondered.

                  Sherlock didn’t answer, silent for the rest of the cab ride. When the arrived, he paid off the driver, and the two headed to the morgue, which was closed off for the night. Sherlock grunted a dialed Molly’s number.

                  “Unlock your door. John and I are coming over,” he said, then hung up. He grabbed John’s hand and they headed out of the hospital and down the street. Molly’s flat was only a few streets away, and when they let themselves into her flat, Molly was standing tiredly in a robe and slippers, looking concerned.

                  “What’s going on?”

                  “We need a refuge. Don’t mind us, you can go back to bed if you’d like,” Sherlock said.

                  “Thanks for letting us in,” John added.

                  “Refuge from what? What’s happening?”

                  “Well, he’s pretending to be dying of a brain aneurysm, I’m a big gay slut, and we’re both trying to avoid imprisonment in a past century,” John rattled off. He really had ceased caring.

                  Molly blinked. “Is that…supposed to mean something? Something sensible, I mean?”

                  “It means we’re staying the night, and it means you can’t tell peole I’m not actually dying. The fact that John is calling himself a big gay slut is amusing but irrelevant. I highly suggest you lock your flat door tonight.”

                  “W-why’re you faking your death…again?”

                  “For the record, that gay slut comment was a joke,” John interjected.

                  Sherlock raised an eyebrow to Molly’s question. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. This time I won’t be coming back—neither of us will. We will, for all intents and purposes, be dead.”

                  “You mean I won’t see you again? Ever? When? When is this going to happen?”

                  “We don’t know,” John said. “It might not.”

                  “Our situation is very similar to an aneurysm in the sense that we don’t know when or if we will ever…disappear.”

                  “Disappear _where_?” Molly insisted.

                  “It’s hard to explain. Some outside force could make us leave for good,” John said.

                  “You mean, die?”  
                  “Not…exactly,” John sighed.

                  “Molly, you must trust that we have good reason to believe what we do,” Sherlock said, meeting her eyes.

                  “I do. Of course, I just…I wish I knew what was going on.”

                  John gave a hopeless laugh. “So do I.”

                  Sherlock strode over to the window and looked out. “I don’t see any sign of them, John. It doesn’t appear that they followed us.”

                  “Who? What’s following you?” Molly asked, but Sherlock cast her a look that told her that she wasn’t going to be told, and gave a tired sigh.

                  Sherlock pulled off his coat and looked at the sofa. “That unfolds into a bed. We should both be able to fit, John.

                  Molly looked between them, startled. “Both? I mean—I can…take the floor if one of you wants my bed.”

                  “We’ll be fine here,” Sherlock said, unfazed by Molly’s confusion.

                  “Oh—okay,” she said meekly, realization dawning on her. “Well, goodnight, then.” She stopped at her bedroom doorway. “You’ll still be here in the morning, right?”

                  “We’ll try to be,” Sherlock said.

                  Molly nodded, then said after a pause, “So you two finally got together, then.”

                  “Why does _everyone_ think we’re a couple?” John asked. Granted, they were now, but they hadn’t been for very long!

                  “What ever made you think that John and I would end up together? Just because I was never interested _you_ doesn’t mean I wasn’t interested in the opposite gender.”

                  “Tact, Sherlock,” John muttered.

 

                  Sherlock was unable to fall asleep. He watched John slip into unconsciousness and waited for his breathing to grow deep and even, then slipped from the bed and went outside to dial Jack Harkness. If the Doctor couldn’t help them, perhaps Jack could.

                  He answered after the fourth ring.

                  “This is Sherlock Holmes. We met about four months ago. Do you remember?”

                  “Do I remember? Darling, you’re killing me! Of course I do. What’s going on?”

                  “Can we meet? I have some questions.”

                  “Absolutely. When do you fancy?”

                  “Now, if you could.” Sherlock gave him the date and time. “I know it’s late, but there’s a café across the road that’s open.”

                  “I’ll be waiting,” Jack said.

 

                  It was only a couple minutes’ walk to the café, but by the time Sherlock arrived, Jack was already at a table with a coffee. Sherlock couldn’t help coveting a time vortex manipulator of his own.                 

                  “Where are you coming from?” he asked curiously as Jack rose to shook his hand.

                  “Istanbul, 1927.” Jack looked out at the busy road. “Nice to have a break. The city’s a bit hectic that year.” He smiled at Sherlock as he sat back down. “Boy, that face of yours just gets prettier every time I see it. How’s your hunt for the Doctor?”

                  Sherlock ignored Jack’s flirting and sat across from him. “He did, as you predicted, turn up unexpectedly. Twice. And I’d rather he hadn’t. What do you know of the weeping angels?”

                  “Ohh, the weeping angels. Those’ve been popping up more recently, a small pack of scavengers, nothing serious. Tricky creatures, but really amazing. They’re quantum-locked, which means they can’t move if they’re being observed, even by each other. Why? Have you seen one?” He leaned in curiously.

                  Sherlock nodded. “I have reason to believe the Doctor wants us banished into the past by them, and I have no intention of leaving. How are the angels destroyed?”

                  Jack set his coffee down and his smile dropped away. “You listen to me. If the Doctor tells you to do something, you do it. He always has everyone’s best interest in mind.”

                  Sherlock sat back in his chair, frustrated. “This is absurd. Is that all you can tell me?”

                  “’Fraid so. Listen to the Doctor. That’s the best advice anyone can give you,” Jack said. “He wouldn’t tell you this without a very good reason.”

                  Sherlock clenched his jaw, then rose. “Goodbye, Jack.” He turned his coat collar up and headed back to the flat. He and John would have to go back to Baker Street tomorrow and come up with a new plan, since their time-traveling intergalactic acquaintances were being no help at all.

                  He still had people to tell about the aneurysm. After bidding Molly goodbye the next morning, Sherlock traveled to Scotland Yard and informed Lestrade of his “illness.” Lestrade took it with genuine concern and confusion, and Sherlock had told him not to bother telling the other members of the Yard. He was hardly their concern.

 

                  He had grown increasingly on edge, as had John. They tried to carry on life as usual at the flat, but both were rattled by the slightest noises or shadows.

                  One night, while lying awake, John said out of nowhere, “You know what the worst part is? Not the dread of going, but the idea that we might get separated somehow.”

                  “Separated in time?” Sherlock clarified, turning his head to look at him.

                  “It’s just…in my dreams—in my nightmares, one of us gets sent back and the other doesn’t. Or in one dream, we got sent to different time periods. I was in 1895, but you weren’t with me, and then I found stories about a 16th-century crime solver named Sherlock Holmes, and I knew I’d never see you again.”

                  “Well, you’re an idiot, John, because that’s not going to happen,” Sherlock said dismissively.

                  “I’ll tell my dreams to piss off, then,” John muttered.

                  In addition to the paranoia, Sherlock was getting bored. Aside from the angels, there had been few cases, and now more than ever he needed some good crime to stimulate his mind.                 

                  One morning John went to grab a mug from the cabinet and stared at a bag of dehydrated mice. “Nice addition to the teacups in there, Sherlock, the shriveled mice. Is there a vampire cat that I should be worried about?”

                  Sherlock was perched in his chair, grimacing at the fireplace. “Mmm, I wish there was. Let me know if there’s anything in the paper worth mentioning. And by that, I mean at _least_ a six.” He let out a long, loud sigh. “I’m bored, John. Bored!”

                  “Really? Couldn’t tell,” John said, raising his eyebrows and skimming the paper. “Maybe we should just move somewhere with more interesting crime, since you’ve locked all the decent criminals up. We could go to New York City…or Liverpool.”

                  “Mmm,” Sherlock mumbled distractedly.

                  “Okay. We need to get out of this flat. We’re both jumpy and irritated, and a bit of fresh air will do us good.”

                  Sherlock let John drag him to his feet and begrudgingly followed him outside, muttering about the need for cigarettes.

                  “You’ve been doing well with the patches,” John reminded him.

                  “They’re not sufficient,” Sherlock grumbled.

                  “Where shall we go? The park?” John said, trying to be cheerful. It was a gorgeous spring day, and John was trying hard to shove back the constant fear of being tossed into the past in the blink of an eye. He wanted to enjoy a beautiful day in 2012 London while he could.

                  “Ugh, parks are tedious,” Sherlock grumbled.

                  “Fine!” John said, frustrated. “Let’s go to St. Bart’s and poke at corpses. Will _that_ cheer you up?”

                  “Unlikely. They haven’t got anything new.”

                  They wandered silently through Hyde Park amidst large clusters of daffodils, John doing his best to keep himself from storming off from the sulky and jaded Sherlock.

                  “Want to play ‘spot the people having affairs’ like we did last time? Granted, you always win. But you can laugh at my feeble little mind or use whatever the insult of the day is,” he suggested.

                  “I haven’t got an‘insult of the day,’” Sherlock frowned.

                  “Oh. Make them up on the spot, do you?” John snapped. He fuse was far too short today.

                  Sherlock stopped walking and stared at him. “I don’t sit around conjuring up slurs and abusive behaviors. Not only would that be a waste of time, it would be utterly boring.”

                  “Mmm, just like every other activity under the sun.”

                  Sherlock’s nostrils flared and John’s fists clenched and they walked on in silence past merry bands of pedestrians, joggers, dogs, and families.

                  “Look at them. All so happy. Ignorant. Must be nice,” Sherlock grumbled.

                  John snapped, “We’re _all_ idiots, yes! I get it, okay! You’re a freakish genius, we’re not. You don’t have to say so every five seconds.”

                  “You’re not obliged to hang around me, John, if you find me so ‘freakish,’” Sherlock said, his voice like acid.

                  “Good! I’m going home. Come back when you’re through being an insufferable raincloud,” John countered, then headed for home, now in a stormy mood himself.

                  Sherlock watched John leave, annoyed, then immediately left the park and bought a pack of cigarettes. Watch John stop him.

                  When John rang his phone only minutes later, he answered in a panic, knowing it took John longer to cool down, and that he wouldn’t call while angry unless there was an emergency. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

                  “Angel. In the flat. Debating whether to leave or to stay where I am. Maybe if I back against the wall. I don’t know if there’s more than one.”

                  At the word “angel”, Sherlock bolted for 221B, phone still pressed to his ear. “Keep your eyes on it, John, but call Mrs. Hudson—you’ll need to blink before I can get there. Ask them where they came from. Obviously she won’t know, but she’ll stick around to have a good look at them.” He pocketed his phone as he rounded the corner. Only one more street to the flat.

                  As he ran, Sherlock’s mind raced at the possibility that John could be gone by the time he got there. Gone forever. He pushed himself to run faster, flying up the stairs and bursting into the flat.

                  “John!”

                  Mrs. Hudson turned to look at him in alarm. “Why, what’s the matter, dear?”

                  The stone angel stood between the desk and the kitchen, staring blank-eyed straight ahead, one arm reaching out towards John. Sherlock fixed his eyes on it immediately.

                  “Thank you for coming up, Mrs. Hudson. Don’t you have some baking to do?”

                  She gave the statues and the two men another confused look before conceding and leaving for her downstairs flat. Sherlock could see out of the corner of his eye that John had his eyes on the statue as well. He reached out for John’s hand and took it in his, giving it a squeeze. It felt reassuringly solid and warm. John was still here. Even as he stared down the statue, Sherlock felt a wash of relief.

                  “Are there any others?”

                  “I haven’t checked the bedroom yet.”

                  They kept a firm grip on each others’ hands as they crept toward the bedroom, John looking forward and Sherlock looking backward to keep his eyes fixed on the angel.

                  John pushed open the bedroom door with dread, preparing for the worst, but he still jumped back in horror at the angel that stared right back at him. Gone was the placid, blank-eyed face that looked like any other stone angel. Its face was contorted into a frozen snarl, bearing pointed teeth and looking more like a demon or a gargoyle.

                  “Sherlock! Another one—“ John managed, as if Sherlock hadn’t been able to tell from the way he’d jumped back.

                  Sherlock’s eyes were beginning to water. He swallowed hard, thinking. “I have an idea. We’re going to position ourselves in the middle of the kitchen, halfway between my angel and yours. When I say blink, blink once, as quickly as you can.”

                  “ _What_? You want me to blink?!”

                  “Yes. As _fast_ as you can.” Sherlock squeezed his hand.

                  “Sherlock, I can’t, I don’t want to go—“

                  “We’re not going anywhere,” Sherlock growled. “Do you trust me?”

                  John took a deep breath, staring down the hideous piece of stone in front of him. “Always.” He gripped Sherlock’s hand tighter. He would follow this man anywhere. “On your signal.”

                  They stood back to back. Sherlock tapped a finger deliberately on John’s hand three times, then said, “Blink.”

                   It was barely a flicker of the eyelids for both of them, but when they stared at their angels again, they were directly in front of each man, inches away from them.

                  “Sherlock—“ John said nervously. How had this made the situation better?

                  Sherlock pulled John to the side and grinned in triumph as he stared at the angels. He moved back and took an experimental blink. They stayed put. “It worked! Now that we aren’t in between them, they can’t move. They’re staring at each other.”

                  John hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his breath until he let it out in a long sigh. “Clever. Except,” he gave a nervous laugh, “now we’ll have to skirt around two creepy statues every time we go in and out of your room.”

                  Sherlock laughed and clapped John on the shoulder, still shaky with nerves. “We’ll have to lessen the creepiness, then.” He grabbed his deerstalker from the mantel and one of John’s caps from the hat stand and flung them on the heads of each. “The deerstalker suits that angel much better than it does me.”

                  John laughed and straightened the hat on the statue. They did indeed look a lot less menacing now, and John’s heart lifted at the encouraging thought that they’d beaten these two stone angels. “So, is that it, then? We can tell people your aneurysm magically cleared up?”

                  Sherlock’s grin faded. “Aneurysm stays,” he said. “There were more than two angels at Barrington Arms, and for all we know, there are even more out there. I don’t want to get too comfortable and then be caught off guard.”

                  He met John’s eyes, stepping closer to him. “I thought I’d lost you today. When you called—“

                  John stepped toward him and wrapped his arms around him. “You didn’t lose me.” He sighed into Sherlock’s shoulder. He was exhausted. He felt like he hadn’t slept in days, and the fatigue of paranoia felt much worse now that that blissful moment of temporary relief had vanished. “Will this ever be over? I’m so tired of running.”

                  Sherlock thought about this silently as he held John. They both knew the answer to that question. Their future was beginning to feel more and more like an inevitable fate, and it was one that Sherlock didn’t feel ready for. He would never feel ready for 1895.


	10. Chapter 10

                  Sherlock and John grew used to the sight of the horrific angels trapped in their narrow flat corridor after a couple days, although they were a nuisance to skirt around. They were brainstorming ways to get rid of them without breaking the angels’ eye contact with each other as they were walking home when they saw a blue phone box parked outside of Speedy’s café.

                  They glanced at each other briefly before racing upstairs to see the Doctor circling the stone angels, examining them closely.

                  Sherlock ground his teeth together and stormed up to the Doctor with every intention of clocking him in the face. “ _What are you doing here?_ ” he seethed.

                  The Doctor blinked mildly, although wisely stayed on the other side of the angels, out of Sherlock’s reach. “Why are _you_ still here, is the better question, Sherlock Holmes. When you leave, you close up this reality, and that’s how it should be. If you keep running…if you stay here much longer, you will rip a hole in the universe.”

                  Sherlock lunged at the Doctor, but John grabbed him by the waist, yanking him back. “Get. Out. _Now_ ,” he snarled.

                  The Doctor sidled around the statues, admiring them and keeping his tone conversational. “Love the hats. Clever you, trapping them like this. You did your research.” He fixed his deep-set, old-looking eyes on Sherlock and the casual tone disappeared. “But you can’t keep running. I can send you back myself, you know. If it comes to that.” He locked eyes with John now, and John felt the weight of his words. So they really were doomed, then, to be sent back. At that moment, John knew they weren’t going to win this one.

                  Sherlock, however, was not about to give up. “What does it matter if I carry out my life _here_ or _there_?” he fumed.

                  “Because it’s a _fixed point in time_ ,” the Doctor said, raising his voice. “It _must_ happen. You inspire millions, but you _cannot_ do it if you stay here!”

                  “Why should I care?! My goal and purpose in live isn’t to flit about doling out inspiration! I’m not a _muse_!”                                                     

                  The Doctor’s steely expression softened and he ducked under the angel to face Sherlock directly. His voice was an almost reverent whisper. “Sherlock Holmes. You’ll just have to trust me. I’m the Doctor.”

                  Sherlock stared coldly back. “You must realize that saying I should trust you because you’re ‘The Doctor’ is about equivalent to saying I should trust you because you had shrimp cocktails for dinner last week—meaningless.”

                  “And he already has a doctor looking out for him,” John pointed out.

 **“** Why, for _God’s_ sake, should I put my life and _John’s_ in _YOUR_ hands?!”

                  “You must trust me, Sherlock. Otherwise all of this ceases to exist, and you, along with everything you know, will disappear, a lost pocket of history with you trapped inside. You have one of the greatest minds on the planet and you choose to use it to help people. I know what you would give to save the life of a friend. I also know you won’t condemn millions to cease existing for selfish reasons.”

                  Sherlock ground his teeth together, unnerved once more by how much the Doctor read into him. “But how do you know? What is your evidence to believe that this universe will be ‘damaged’ if we stay? It’s ludicrous.”

                  “The universe is ripping already,” the Doctor said. “You can see them, if you know how to look.” He pulled out a strange, pen-shaped device from his pocket and pointed it at the nearest wall. It made a whizzing noise as light-filled fractures, thin as hairs, appeared in the flat’s wallpaper, the skull on the wall, the window panes, the sofa.

                  The Doctor switched off his device and they disappeared. “Proof enough, detective?”

                  Sherlock was still staring at the wall. It looked the same as it did before, but he could still see where the glowing cracks had been in his head, their precise lengths and curvatures.

                  “You belong in that century, Sherlock. In the full universe, you are _always_ in the late 19th and early 20th century. This, right here, is a fluke. And it needs to be corrected,” the Doctor said.

                  Sherlock worked his jaw for several moments, then finally cleared his throat. “How much longer do we have? How much longer can we stay before--?” He trailed off as John stepped next to him and took his hand. “A week?”

                  “The universe will continue cracking and crumbling around you, and if you stay too long, you won’t be able to go back if you wanted to. Just being here now is making me uncomfortable. We’re on the brink of nonexistence. The next time the angels come, don’t try to stop them.”

                  Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath, then nodded. John squeezed his hand.

                  The Doctor rubbed his hands together, his smile returning. “You two will be fine. You and Victorian London will get on brilliantly. Doctor Watson, bowler hats suit you. And London never changes, not really—even back when it was Londinium the cab fees were outrageous and the people on the east end had strange haircuts.” He looked at his watch. “Ooh, got to run, I really really have to. I might have left Marilyn at the alter…again.”

                  “How is this fair?” John said suddenly. “You have the nerve to zip around to any time you like and force people’s lives to change? We’re becoming time refugees against our wills and you get to run to wherever and whenever you please?”

                  “I never said it was fair, John,” the Doctor said, giving him a sad, old smile. He gripped John’s hand. “Goodbye, Doctor Watson. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. I know you’ll both do what you need to do.”

                  With that, he turned and trotted down the staircase. John and Sherlock heard the hum and whirr of the TARDIS as it disappeared, but neither of them bothered to go to the window to watch it vanish. They were both coming to terms with what was about to happen.

                  John watched Sherlock carefully as a strong hatred for the Doctor bubbled up inside of him. Here everything had just been getting so perfect. Sherlock and him, finally together…it wasn’t unfair.

                  Sherlock seemed to be memorizing the flat. His eyes scanned over everything—the skull, the bookshelves, John’s laptop, the dirty teacups on the tray teetering under stacks of old newspapers, the bullet holes in the wall. “I hate not knowing. When we’ll have to go,” Sherlock said.

                  “What will you miss the most?” John asked. He glanced at the electric kettle and the light switches. He hadn’t even thought about electricity until now. How much electricity did they have in 1895?

                  “What does it matter?” Sherlock said irritably, sinking into his chair.

                  “I’ll miss the blog. And the comment section,” John offered up. “And your ambiguous texts telling me to fetch your harpoon or Google something or other. Good curry.”

                  “Ugh, a life without texts. Actually having to bother talking to people,” Sherlock grumbled. “And what’ll we do with a fridge? Where’ll I keep the blood and the thumbs?”

                  “Going to the cinema…not catching horrible diseases. God, do you know how rubbish medicine was in Victorian London?”

                  “Openness to same-sex relationships,” Sherlock offered.

                  “Mmm. Hadn’t thought of that,” John said, becoming overwhelmed.

                  Sherlock gave a long sigh, lacing his fingers, and staring out the window. “It’s a relief, in a way. Knowing that we have to go. We don’t have to run anymore. We just need to stay together.”

                  “And we’ve said goodbye to our friends,” John considered.

                  “I want to say goodbye to London,” Sherlock said, disgusted at how sentimental it sounded. “ _This_ London, I mean.”

                 

                  They spent the rest of their day doing just that. John reveled in ordinary things—queuing in Tesco and getting overcharged at the cash machine, eating kebabs for lunch, listening to a one-way conversation of some pregnant woman on her mobile. They stopped at the Cross and Key for a pint and idly watched the end of a football match on the telly, then took a bus to St. Bart’s. Sherlock ran a hand fondly over the microscopes and preservation supplies and sleek computers.

                  They hailed a cab to Westminster, getting out at Trafalgar Square, and walked amidst the tourists to the Thames, silent the whole way. John watched the double-decker busses and police cars and cabs and felt a pang. He missed everything already.

                  On Westminster Bridge, they stopped and stared out at the water. “Ugh. This is going to smell _terrible_ in 1895. Do you know how awful the stench was in London back then?”

                  John suddenly turned Sherlock’s face toward him and stepped up on his toes to kiss him, taking him by surprise. If they were going to publicly display their affection, it had to be now. Sherlock caught John’s lip with his, moving a gloved hand to John’s face, and kissed him back. It was a comforting reminder that no matter what changed in his life, John would be there with him.

                  “Fuck off, ya poofters!” Some youth yelled, clipping them on his way past.

                  John pulled away and muttered a string of obscenities after him. “Well, so much for tolerance,” he grumbled, then sighed and caught Sherlock’s eye. “Anywhere else you want to go?”

                  “One place more.”

                 

                  Sherlock had contemplated visiting Mycroft in person for several days. Now that they were standing in front of his townhouse, he was beginning to second-guess himself. He rang the buzzer and a posh female voice answered. “Please give your name and reason for visiting.”

                  “Mycroft! Let me in,” Sherlock called into the buzzer.

                  There was muttering from the other line, then the buzzer sounded and the door unlocked itself. As they went up the stairs, John asked, “Are you sure you want me here?”

                  “I hardly think it matters either way,” Sherlock muttered, then stepped inside a hallway lined with dark wood. To the left was a heavy oak door, opened to reveal a library with shelves that stretched to the ceiling. The wood floors were covered in Persian rugs, and Mycroft sat in a maroon leather armchair, a book balanced in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other.

                  “’Give your name and reason for visiting?’ _That’s_ new. Bit excessive, isn’t it?” Sherlock raised his eyebrow and looked around. “Although you were never one to shy away from the ostentatious.”

                  Mycroft set his glass of scotch on a small table beside him, not bothering to look up from his book. “Glad to see you alive. Thank you _very_ much for sending your lackey to tell me the news.” His grin was tight. “How predictable.”

                  “I’m not his lackey,” John interjected.

                  “I’m sorry, what term do you prefer Pet? Colleague? Lover?”

                  It was all John could do to stop himself from punching Mycroft in his prominent nose.  

                  “What do you want, Sherlock? It’s not often you visit me at home.”

                  Sherlock stepped over to Mycroft and snatched the book from him, snapping it shut. “Do _not_ talk to him that way,” he said lowly, then straightened.

                  Mycroft’s eyebrows raised.

                  “I didn’t send John. He came on his own volition. I had no intention of telling you, but now that you know, I’ve come to say goodbye,” Sherlock said in an even voice. He straightened his suit cuffs. “My condition is more severe than the doctors previous thought. I have a week at most, if time is generous to me. So goodbye, Mycroft. That’s what I came to say.”

                  Feeling that he was intruding, John silently backed out of the door and closed it behind him. He had no idea what a Holmes farewell would entail, but he felt they should at least have some privacy.

                  Mycroft cleared his throat, stared at the floor for a moment, as if wrestling something in his mind, then finally stood. “This is it, then? I won’t see you again?”

                  It sunk in then. Sherlock would never see his pompous older brother again, and the thought bothered him far more than he had predicted. “No. This is—“he swallowed. “This will be it.”

                  Mycroft narrowed his eyes, nodding, and studied his brother’s face. “Those scans John showed me were fake. Obviously. I’m assuming that you have constructed this lie for a good reason, although why you ever thought I wouldn’t notice is beyond me. So, Sherlock, drop the aneurysm charade. Is this _really_ the last time I’m going to see you?”

                  “Yes. Mycroft, there are…extenuating circumstances. If I could explain, I would, but this is very much my goodbye.”

                  Mycroft nodded, mulling this over. “I-I, um…” he heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I know I was never the most. Well, I’ve always tried to look out for you, even if—hm.” He gave up on his floundering sentence, closing it with a tight smile.

                  Sherlock clenched his jaw, annoyed to no end that tears were stinging his eyes. His stupid, arrogant, older brother. What good would it do, being upset that he wouldn’t see him again? He tried to keep his voice steady as he said, “I know I was a handful. Though I can’t say I regret pick-pocketing you all those times. It always came in handy.”

                  Mycroft blinked rapidly and looked at the floor. “In primary school, when you used to knick the headmaster’s keys to use the lab—remember that? As Head Boy I was always the one put in charge of finding out where the keys were, and I had to pretend to be mystified. You were a little bastard.” He laughed softly.

                  Sherlock smiled too and hurriedly wiped his eyes. “While we’re coming clean…your rabbit, Charleston, the gray one that died over summer hols back when I was still in primary—that was my fault. I was running an experiment on it, trying to control animal’s emotional responses—“

                  Mycroft gave a choked, wet laugh. He was holding back tears as well. “And how’d that work out for you?”

                  “Not well.”

                  Mycroft smiled and the brothers finally caught each other’s eyes. Mycroft cleared his throat and stood up straight, remembering himself. “There’s so much left I never got to say. My brother—“ He cleared his throat, cutting himself off. “Well, perhaps if it’s best if I don’t say it.”

                  “Never one for speeches,” Sherlock snorted, relieved that the teary moment had passed. He looked over his brother a final time. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

                  “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

                  They gave each other a last, parting look, each hoping it communicated what they were unable to say, before Sherlock opened the door and stepped into the hallway to meet John.

                  John noticed Sherlock’s red eyes but didn’t say anything. He merely gave his hand a quick squeeze as they headed out of the house.


	11. Chapter 11

                  John wasn’t sure what Sherlock would want to do after saying goodbye to his brother. When Sherlock ordered the cab back to Baker Street, John had expected Sherlock to retreat to his room or to his chair and disappear into his thoughts for hours on end, but as soon as they were inside 221B, Sherlock shrugged off his coat and yanked John toward him, kissing him. John gasped in surprise.

                  Sherlock needed a distraction. He pushed up closer to John, sliding John’s coat down his arms and prying John’s mouth open with his tongue, then let it explore along John’s teeth and pushed it against John’s tongue.

                  Succumbing to Sherlock’s prying, John opened his mouth wider, clutching at Sherlock to keep from falling backwards, moaning into his mouth. The moans awakened something in Sherlock and his pulse quickened. He began pushing John backwards toward the bedroom, never letting his lips stray far from John’s. His hands wrapped around John’s waist and then slid to his back, beginning to yank at John’s shirt, untucking it. Soon his hands were on John’s warm skin, and as they stumbled onto the bed, Sherlock let up on the kisses for a moment to yank John’s shirt and jumper off.

                  “You sure? Tonight?” John managed to say before Sherlock found his lips again, although he didn’t know how he was going to be able to stop at this point. Sherlock’s insistent kisses and caresses and totally disarmed John and he was far too worked up to want to stop now.

                  “Obviously,” Sherlock said into John’s mouth before kissing him deeply, gripping at John’s biceps and beginning to grind slowly against him. John ran his hand down Sherlock’s back, over his thighs and bum, pulling him closer. Sherlock attacked John’s neck with his mouth, causing John to gasp and arch his head back, and he began blindly unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, hungry to touch Sherlock’s bare skin. “Although if you don’t want to, I won’t force you to,” Sherlock said coyly, pressing into him. His fingers were now at John’s nipples, and his tongue had found the spot under John’s ear that sent sparks down his spine.

                  “As if you could,” John said breathily, closing his eyes. “I’m not your slave. Even if I don’t mind being ordered around every now and then.”

                  Sherlock pulled away long enough to raise an eyebrow down at John. “Is that so? Take off your belt.” He clamped his mouth against John’s, arching his back away from him so John could obey.

                  John’s breath quickened. “Yes, sir.”

                  That made Sherlock laugh. “Such a good soldier.” John quickly unbuckled his belt, tilting his hips up as he yanked it from his belt loops, then draped it around the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling on the ends to bring him back into a kiss.

                  Sherlock’s breath was hot against John’s as he muttered, “Now your trousers.”

                  He sat back, straddling John’s thighs, and shrugged off his own shirt, carefully tossing it aside, then began caressing his hands through John’s hair as John slid his trousers down his hips and kicked them off.

                  Once off, Sherlock pushed John back against the bed again, arching his back to press his chest against John’s. He could feel John’s small gasp as he slid a hand up to John’s throat, gently clutching at it as he licked along his jaw.

                  John rolled his head back, groaning involuntarily, and clutched at Sherlock’s hips, beginning to rub himself against Sherlock. Sherlock still had his trousers on, and the layers of fabric between them were infuriating.

                  Sherlock pressed his hand harder down on John’s neck, but only enough that John’s couldn’t freely move his head around. He dragged his teeth along John’s jaw, following the bone up to his ear. John’s breath caught as Sherlock’s tongue and then his teeth found John’s earlobe, dragging it out as his hand slid down to touch John through his pants.

                  John moaned a bit louder, hungry for more. He pulled down the zipper to Sherlock’s trousers, then slid his hands over Sherlock’s slender back and into his trousers, grabbing at his bare skin. Sherlock felt delicious, but he jerked away from John’s touch, reaching behind him and grabbing John’s wrists, slamming them up against the bed above John’s head.

                  Sherlock leaned down until their noses were just barely touching. “I don’t recall telling you that you could touch,” he breathed.

                  John pulled and twisted at his wrists, but Sherlock held them fast. He writhed under the man, his heart racing. He’d never wanted Sherlock more. He craned his head up to try to catch his lips with his own, but Sherlock leaned back, not allowing John to make contact.

                  He deftly switched his grip so that one hand splayed over and pinned both of John’s wrists, allow the other to pin John’s neck to the bed, forcing his head away. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, amused. “ _Don’t_. _Move_. Think you can handle that?”

                  John moaned, half out of frustration, half from anticipation and croaked out a yes. He forced himself to stop grinding and writhing, his wrists still strained against Sherlock’s hand.

                  Sherlock slowly withdrew his hands, then began fervently kissing under John’s jaw and along his neck, licking just under John’s chin. He drew up again to glare down at John. “Not even a muscle. Understand?”

                  “What happens if I can’t help myself?” John panted.

                  “Are you suggesting I might have to restrain you?” Sherlock flicked his eyes to their cast-off belts on the bed. “I will I have to.”

                  Oh, God. That idea shouldn’t have excited John as much as it did. “You might have a mutiny on your hands if you don’t.” John shifted his hips experimentally.

                  Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling even as he warned with clenched teeth, “ _Stop. Moving._ ”

                  John tried, he did. He clenched his wrists above his head, trying best not to move, but now Sherlock’s lips were trailing down his chest, his tongue flicking at his nipples, and his hands were slowly peeling off John’s pants, freeing his erection.

                  As Sherlock pushed John’s legs apart and brushed his fingers teasingly over John’s aching cock, John groaned loudly, twitching his hips up towards Sherlock, and slid his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders, unable to keep from touching him anymore.

                  Sherlock pulled back, making an annoyed sound. He grabbed the belts from the bed, looping each one around John’s wrists and stretching them apart, tying them around opposite bedposts so that John’s arms were immobile.

                  He leaned back over John and pressed his hand against John’s throat once more, this time hard enough that John couldn’t breathe properly. “I thought I told you to stay put?” His voice was soft, but his hand came out of nowhere to slap John across the face, startling him more than hurting him.

                  John gasped in a breath as Sherlock’s hand left his throat. He tried to yank his wrists free, but they were fastened tightly and only pulled tighter as he struggled. Anyway, the bindings only served to work him up even more. His face was red and he was finding it impossible to keep his moans in check.

                  “Sh-Sherlock, please—“ He begged.

                  Sherlock was finding it hard to keep himself restrained as he looked down at the struggling, flustered doctor. His name sounded so good on those lips. He could keep John here forever, he thought as he trailed his fingers up and down John’s chest.

                  “What—what if we wake Mrs. Hudson?”

                  Sherlock bent down to kiss him, biting down on his lower lip and dragging it out. John closed his eyes at the feel of Sherlock’s teeth and lips on his, trying fruitlessly to buck up against him.

                  “A fair concern,” Sherlock said, then rolled off the bed, leaving John naked and too aroused to think straight. He returned a moment later with his blue scarf, then straddled John once again. He twisted the scarf until it looked more like a rope and hooked it behind his back, holding the ends to keep it taut. He looked down at John darkly.

                  “What do you intend to do with that?” John asked, although he had a fairly good idea. His heart was pounding.

                  Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What do you intend to do with that, _sir_?” He corrected, then unhooked the scarf from his shoulders and leaned forward to give John a slow kiss, teasing John’s mouth open with his tongue.

                  Just as John opened his own mouth to allow his own tongue to meet Sherlock’s, Sherlock pulled away and stuck the scarf in John’s mouth, wrapping it around John’s head and knotting it to gag him tightly.                 

                  John gave a muffled, frustrated cry as he felt the scarf knot behind his head. He was almost glad that he was gagged—as humiliating as it was, it was turning him on far more than he would ever admit.

                  “That should solve our problem.” Sherlock leaned forward to lick under John’s chin and whispered, “Keep your legs still.” He slowly slid back between John’s legs, pushing them apart, then cradled John’s balls in his hand, gently tugging and fondling them.

                  John moaned and twitched, then whimpered in torment as Sherlock ran his tongue along the length of John’s cock.

                  When Sherlock’s mouth finally enveloped him, John might have come right then, if Sherlock’s hand hadn’t circled around his base to keep him away from orgasm. Sherlock continued for several minutes, tugging at balls every now and then, keeping John at the razor’s edge of an orgasm but never quite giving him enough to send him over the edge.

                  He finally withdrew John from his mouth very slowly, leaving John sweating and writhing and straining at the belts hold him back. He watched as Sherlock peeled off his own trousers and pants, then Sherlock met his eyes.

                  “Do _not_ come until I tell you to.”

                  John weakly lifted his head up to nod, then flopped back onto the pillow in frustration, practically shouting through his gag.

                  “So impatient,” Sherlock teased, then reached to the bedside table and pulled out some lube. Smirking a bit, he uncapped the bottle and rubbed some along _John_ ’s cock, to John’s obvious surprise.

                  As Sherlock positioned himself carefully over John’s hips, John realized, wide-eyed what was going to happen. God, he was going to have to do everything he could to stop himself with coming immediately.

                  Sherlock steered John’s cock carefully as he lowered himself, then sat back with a groan that was half pain, half pleasure, John’s entire length inside of him.

                  John bit down on the gag, yelling into it as his eyes rolled up. The sensation of was incredible, and John’s breath caught even more as Sherlock began to move up and down.

                  He moved slowly, not only to torture John, but to give his muscles time to relax around John. He leaned forward as he grew used to the feeling of John inside him, supporting himself by balancing his palms on John’s chest. He gasped as he angled himself so that John was pressing up against his prostate. It was an entirely new feeling, and his mouth fell open as he hit the spot again, beginning to move a bit faster.

                  John let himself be ridden, staring up in breathless wonder as he tried to think of anything more hot than Sherlock at this moment, impaling himself on John, his face screwed up in utter pleasure. John clenched his hands into fists and cursed the gag—he wasn’t going to be able to hold on much longer.

                  Sherlock moved faster, straining his hips so that John hit him all the right spots, gasping. He dug his nails into John’s chest and growled, “ _Look at me._ ”

                  John inhaled sharply at the sting of Sherlock’s nails and opened his eyes, staring widely into Sherlock’s. Sherlock shuddered, about to climax. “ _Now,_ John!”

                  John only had to thrust up once into Sherlock before he erupted into pleasure, yelling into the gag. Sherlock came simultaneously, shooting onto John’s stomach. Panting, he unsteadily lifted himself off John and rolled to the side, pulling the gag from John’s mouth as John lay limply, trying to regain his breath.

                  He reached up and undid the belt nearest to him, letting John undo the other. John let his arms drop for a second, exhausted, then finally untied the scarf and cleaned off his stomach, tossing it to the floor. He rubbed his raw wrists and closed his eyes until he had regained his breath enough to say, “You—you did a number on me there…” He laughed tiredly, then examined one of his wrists, sucking on a very raw part where the buckle had rubbed against his skin.                 

                  Sherlock gave an exhausted chuckle. “Worth it,” he said, then gently took John’s wrist in his and kissed the inside of it.

                  “Definitely worth it,” John said. “That was…amazing, Sherlock.”

                  He smiled and tilted his face up to kiss John before shifting over and settling next to him on the bed. He was staring at the ceiling, thinking, and his smile faded.

                  “We ought to sleep fully dressed,” he said. “If the angels come, we don’t want to get sent back in nothing but our skin.”

                  John laughed a bit regretfully, the reality of what was to come hitting him anew. “Right. I don’t imagine Victorians would respond too kindly to two naked, sexed-up men randomly appearing in the street.” He rolled over and groaned at his clothes, which were crumpled and sprawled across the room. “Getting dressed requires moving, doesn’t it?”

                  “Mmm. You can see why I never bother dressing unless I have to,” Sherlock mumbled, rolling off the bed. He yanked on his pants and trousers, then tossed John’s things to him. “Decency laws—entirely stupid,” he sighed, falling onto the bed again once he had his shirt and suit back on.

                  Once they were halfway decent again, John rolled to face Sherlock, his hand tracing along Sherlock’s ribs and around to his back, tracing the spine with his fingertips. It was relaxing to watch Sherlock’s body unwind once more, and his eyes slowly droop as he picked up John’s free wrist and kissed it.

                  “I love you, Sherlock,” John said, tucking his head under Sherlock’s chin and breathing in his smell.

                  “I love you, John,” Sherlock sighed, pulling John toward him and drifting off easily.

 

                  When they woke up the following morning, John and Sherlock debated what to do with their day. They felt as if they were biding their time now. They had said their goodbyes, but sitting around the flat made them altogether too nervous. They both needed a distraction.

                  John paced to the window and saw a gay couple holding hands. He got an idea; a stupid one, but it was silly enough that it would distract them for a bit. “Remember how we talked about missing public tolerance to same-sex relationships? Don’t you think we should take advantage of that tolerance while we can?”

                  “What did you have in mind, John?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously, smiling a bit.

                  John laughed at the absurdity o fit. “Well, at first I was thinking we could just be obnoxiously affectionate in public, but it might be more fun—and more challenging—to see what outrageous places we could sneak into and…canoodle without getting caught.” He blushed, unable to stop grinning.

                  Sherlock frowned at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. He declared, “John! Get your coat! We’re going to the British Museum to have a snog!”

 

                  John grabbed Sherlock’s hand as he strode over to the map to scope the exhibits. “Which room d’you reckon has the fewest people?”

                  “Exactly how far are you wanting to go, John?” Sherlock frowned.

                  “Since when did you care about breaking the law?” John asked. “We’ll play it by ear. I’m not suggesting—“ he lowered his voice, glancing at a security guard watching them curiously. “That was have _sex_ in public. But there’s a certain thrill to the idea of getting caught.”

                  “John Watson, you are a bigger thrill seeker than I originally pegged you for.” He plucked the map from John’s hands. “Assyrian Ivory-Work. It never sees much action.”

                  “Care to change that?” John grinned cheekily.

 

                  They had the decency to at least pretend that they were look at exhibits on their way up, but they were quick about ducking inside the room. It was empty, as expected, and John wasted no time in yanking Sherlock into a secluded corner, pushing him against the glass case to kiss him.

                  John clutched at Sherlock’s coat lapels, kissing him as if this was the last time he’d ever be able to do, and Sherlock matched his fervency, slipping his tongue into John’s mouth, which was becoming much more familiar now, but in a delightful way, like a favorite room he loved coming back to. He wrapped his arms around John’s back, sucking on John’s lower lip.

                  John slipped his hands behind Sherlock’s coat and grabbed at his bum, pulling him closer. “Just realized…there are probably security cameras in here,” he muttered.

                  “Two,” Sherlock said into John’s mouth. “If we slide two inches to the left—“ he sidled over, pulling John with him. “We’re in the blind spot.” He clawed at John’s shoulder blades through his coat.

                  John groaned and opened his mouth wider, then froze when he heard voices nearing the room. He tensed as a couple passed the doorway without going in, then laughed into Sherlock’s mouth and resumed kissing.

                  “More coming,” Sherlock mumbled, pulling away. They both froze—a group of school children, by the sound of things. They quickly disentangled themselves and straightened their appearances as a small boy wandered in. The rest of the group seemed to be moving on without him, but he didn’t seem to notice or mind. He just stared up at John and Sherlock. “Were you two havin’ a snog just now?” he asked.

                  Sherlock grinned a bit, recognizing the narrowed-eyed, calculating look the boy was giving them now. Obviously he had put together a few observations. Clever lad. John blushed furiously, turning to the nearest glass case to check his reflection. What had given him away?

                  Meanwhile, Sherlock stepped over to peer down at the child. “And what led you to that conclusion?”

                  The boy tilted his head to the side a bit and blinked up at him. “Both your lips are swollen, your cheeks are pink and it’s not cold outside today, or windy, so why is your hair all mussed? And _his_ shirt’s come untucked.”

                  John hurriedly tucked it back in, his face no less red, as the boy finished, “And the fact that you’re hanging around in the boring old ivory work room’s sort of a giveaway.”

                  Sherlock was delighted. “Fine work—what’s your name?”

                  “Hamish, sir?”

                  John smiled at that. “A good, strong name.”

                  Sherlock snorted.

                  “Where’s your mum and dad?”

                  “I haven’t got a mum and dad, and even if I had, I’m with my class, _obviously._ It’s a Monday—school trip.” He gave Sherlock a disbelieving look, as if reveling in John’s idiocy.

                  “Bit of a cheeky kid, isn’t he?,” John muttered to Sherlock. “He reminds me of another pompous git I know.”

                  “Don’t mistake intelligence for cheekiness, John,” Sherlock said aloud. “It would seem we’ve got a proper genius on our hands. I imagine you’re top of the class.”

                  “Speaking of your class, won’t the group be missing you by now? I bet your teacher is worried.”

                  “Oh, they don’t care about _me_. I can find my own way around…besides this is all so _boring_. What good will it do me to learn about _Assyrian Ivory Work_ anyway?”

                   John gave Hamish a small, sympathetic smile, then pulled out the map he’d snagged at the entrance. “I am quite partial to Coptic art, however…aren’t you, Sherlock?”            

            “I don’t even know what that is,” Sherlock sniffed.

                  “I do. It’s artwork made by the Coptic Christians back in Egyptian times.”

                   Sherlock gives Hamish a bit of a disgruntled look, not liking that the little boy knew something that he didn’t.

                  “They do mosaics and stuff right? Or are they frescos?”           

            John mumbled something. He didn’t know a single thing about Coptic art other than what Hamish had just told him. He’d just been looking for another likely-empty room so he and Sherlock could continue their snog. He considered shooing Hamish off—despite what the boy said, the school group was bound to notice him missing eventually, and the teachers would likely frown on him hanging around with two strange men.

                  “Can we go see them?” the boy asked, as if they had come together on this outing in the first place.

                  John shifted plans. “Yeah, for a bit. But then you’ve got to find your school group again, all right?” They headed out to find the new room. “I don’t want to be accused of kidnapping,” he grumbled.

                  The room was full of paintings, sculptures, and frescos and was indeed empty. “You _like_ this? I don’t know why people think this stuff is so great.” Hamish looked up at Sherlock.

                  “I’d have to agree with you, Hamish.” He turned to John and raised an eyebrow, knowing full well why John had chosen the room. “Perhaps John can enlighten us on why he is so fond of this particular aesthetic.”

                  John cast Sherlock a look that said “I hate you” loud and clear, then cleared his throat. He gave Hamish a forced smile and apologetically itched the back of his neck. “Well, art’s subjective, isn’t it? Just because _you_ don’t like it, doesn’t mean it’s _bad_. It managed to get displayed in an esteemed museum, after all. It has, uhh, historical significance and the color use on…that one—“ He gestured vaguely at a crumbly fresco. “—It’s…really…exquisite…” John traied off lamely.

                  Hamish raised an eyebrow and gave John and all too familiar stare. John leaned in to whisper to Sherlock, “Did you have a clone made a few years back, because that boy is the spit of you. And anyway, cloning seems like the sort of arrogant thing you’d try.”

                  “Not that I’m aware of,” he whispered back, biting back a grin. “I don’t know, he reminds me a bit of you.”

                  And indeed, at this moment, Hamish was pursing his lips in a decidedly John Watson way as he thought. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, do you? You probably just wanted to come in here to kiss some more.”

                  John turned bright red, then hastily changed the subject. “You said you don’t have a mum and dad. Are you an orphan?”

                  “No, I’ve got two dads, at least that’s what Craig and Sophie told me.”

                  “Craig and Sophie are your guardians?” John clarified.

                  “Yeah, but their friend who gave me to them says my dads’ll come back for me some day soon. It’s all a load of rubbish, of course. People can’t have two _actual_ dads. That’s not how biology works,” he added confidentially, looking very proud that he knew this.

                  “Right,” John said shakily. His heart was hammering.

                  “This _friend_ of your guardians,” Sherlock said. “Tell us more about their friend.”

                  “Well, he’s called the Doctor, and he’s really funny—and really weird,” Hamish added, frowning a bit. “But he pops in every now and then to say hi. He usually ends up breaking something on accident.”

                  Two dads. And the Doctor’s involvement yet again. It was impossible that this boy was their son, of course, John thought. Hamish was right, biology didn’t work that way. Still, Hamish’s unruly mop of dark hair, his narrow blue eyes, and his whole demeanor were so like Sherlock that John couldn’t ignore the resemblance. His heart pounded as he watched Hamish scratch behind his ear, something he’d seen Harry do a thousand times when she was uncomfortable. It simply wasn’t possible. He had to be imagining things.

                  “Why’re you staring at me?” Hamish frowned.

                  “Does this Doctor have any other name?” Sherlock pressed.

                  “No, it’s just the Doctor. Bit of a rubbish name, if you ask me, as well as misleading. I don’t think he’s got even the slightest bit of medical training.” He looked over at John. “Unlike you. You’re a proper doctor, right?”

                  John nodded. “What tipped you off?”

                  Hamish shifted uncomfortably for a moment before digging something out of his trouser pocket. He handed John his own wallet. “I just wanted to see who you were…and your medical identification was in there…” He raised his eyes to meet John’s regretfully.

                  Sherlock was grinning ear to ear. John knew he should be angry with the boy, but he was almost impressed.

                  “It’s just that…I saw your surname and I—“ Hamish was biting his lip now, looking as if he was holding back an explosion. “Are you my dad? I mean….are you my dads?”

                  They stared at him in shock, neither knowing what to say.

                  “It’s just…your surname’s Watson…and mine’s Holmes-Watson, and what with you two snogging and all I thought—“ The boy looked up at them both, his eyes wide and full of hope. There was fear there, too, as if worried of being let down.

                   John stammered. Of course they _couldn’t_ be. If they’d somehow, impossibly had a son, they’d bloody well know! But the resemblance—and the surnames. Was this some sort of Time Lord prank? He didn’t find it amusing in the least.

                  Sherlock was staring, narrow-eyed at the boy, silent as well.

                  A security guard strode in. “Are you Hamish Holmes-Watson?”

                  “What’s it to you if I am?” Hamish asked suspiciously.

                  The security guard took his hand. “Right. Your group’s waiting for you. Off we go—“ he started dragging Hamish away.

                  “Let me alone! You’re going to give me an asthma attack, you inconsiderate berk!”

                  Sherlock stepped in. “Will you please get your hands off him? This is entirely our fault—we got to talking him and proved a distraction. We’ll escort him.”

                  “I’ll have to come with, sir. You understand,” he said, letting go of Hamish’s arm.

                  Hamish huffily straightened his school blazer and led the march out of the room. Sherlock and John trailed behind.

                  “His characteristics match us perfectly, John,” Sherlock whispered. “What do we do?”

                  It was rare that John heard Sherlock ask that question. “He _can’t_ be, though. Obviously. Biology doesn’t work that way—“

                  “We’re recently been enlightened in our view of how time works as well,” Sherlock pointed out. “But even if our DNA _was_ somehow combined into this…child here, how could we not know about it? It’s absurd.”

                  “Absurd doesn’t even begin to cover it! We’ve been together for less than a month, and he’s a 10-year-old boy! Even if this _was_ possible, it’s still _not_!” John spluttered.

                  “It’s the Doctor, of course,” Sherlock seethed. He hated that he couldn’t get in contact with the Doctor when he needed him. It was utterly irresponsible not to let them know that they had a precocious cocktail of their DNA material wandering around London. Unless the Doctor who visited _them_ didn’t know about him yet. It might have been a future Doctor who had created the child. As much as Sherlock loathed the Doctor, having puzzles that darted in and out of a chronological time frame was fascinating, and was stretching his brain in a marvelous way. He would have to revise his phrase from “The wheel turns. Nothing is ever new” to “The wheel spins backwards and then jolts off to one side, and nothing is ever what you thought it was.”

                  “What do we do if he _is_ ours?” John asked.

                  The most infuriating part of it all to Sherlock was that if they had been sent back to 1895 during their first run-in with the angels, they never would have met him. What _was_ the best option?

                  “Since the Doctor never warned us, I think we can do whatever we damn well please,” Sherlock said.

                  They reached the main foyer, where the classmates were all glaring at Hamish for making them wait. Hamish, unperturbed by his classmates’ angry looks, turned to face John and Sherlock and stuck his hand out. “Sophie says it’s polite to shake people’s hands when you meet them, but I think it’s a load of rubbish. Why should have to touch people straight-off when you meet them?”

                  John and Sherlock shook his hand in turn, still unable to get over the impossibility standing in front of them. John glanced at the teacher before leaning down to Hamish. “Where do Sophie and Craig live? We have some questions for them.”

                  Hope flickered in Hamish’s eyes once more. “Questions about what?”

                  “It doesn’t matter.”

                  Hamish gave them an address in Lambeth, when the teacher called his name in a raised voice. She stepped over to them. “Sorry if he was bothering you.” She looked meaningfully at Hamish. “He will be receiving _quite_ the talking to about running off on his own.”

                  Hamish was soon lost in the throng of navy school blazers, and after the school children had been ushered outside, John and Sherlock were left in relative quiet.

                  “For once…” John said. “Just for _one day_ I would like to have some predictability. Sherlock… _how_ can we have a son?”

                  Sherlock shook his head. It was too big of a question to ponder right now. “Well. To Lambeth, then?”

                  “To Lambeth.”

 

                  “Did you see how he narrows his eyes at people, and those little half-smile smirks he does? And the eyebrow raises? You all over,” John said on the cab ride over.

                  “Well, he’s got your nose. And your earlobes, and your gait…the way your feet turn out when you walk,” Sherlock countered. He thought this over. “It is highly improbable, John, but what if he really is our son?” He had never given the slightest thought to children. “I’m just glad he didn’t have to be raised by us.”

                  John fell into silence and found himself wanting to know everything about Hamish. Whether he plays football like John had, or whether he sat inside with a microscope during recess like Sherlock must have done. He wanted to see the boy’s room. What did he keep on his bookshelves? What sorts of things did he draw? He couldn’t help hoping, against all odds, that Hamish was actually somehow their son. 


	12. Chapter 12

A portly, confused-looking man opened the door at the address Hamish and given them. A toddler was at his heels.

                  “Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said, “and this is Doctor John Watson. Are you Craig?”

                  Craig nodded, his eyes widening, then scooped up his toddler, who was wandering towards the door. “No, Alfie, no running off, or Mummy’s going to be cross with me. Sorry, yes, I’m Craig. Holmes and Watson! Are you here about Hamish? Are you, err, his…?”

                  “That’s what we’re trying to determine, Craig. Mind if we come in?”

                  Craig raised his eyesbrows and stepped back, allowing Sherlock and John to come inside. “Yeah, come in. Excuse the mess. I’ve been the at-home dad lately, and things’ve been—“

                  Sherlock cut him off. “Craig, we met Hamish today and he led us to believe you know the Doctor. Is that right?”

                  “Yes,” Craig stammered. “He pops in every now and then. If it wasn’t for him, Sophie and I never would’ve…”

                  The Doctor seemed like quite the matchmaker, John thought, thinking back to Elton and Ursula. And, although not directly related, he and Sherlock hadn’t acted on their feelings until this whole mess had began.

                  Craig looked between them. “You _must_ be the fathers the Doctor mentioned! Hamish is the very spit of you both! But I have to ask. How was Hamish—“ Craig cleared his throat. “ _Created_ in the first place?”

                  “We haven’t the faintest. We didn’t even know he existed until today. And he’s been longer than we’ve known each other, so we reckoned the Doctor had something to do with it.”

                  Craig, nodded, confused, then sat down on the sofa, setting Alfie on the floor.

                  Sherlock surveyed the living room, then seat across from Craig in a worn floral chair. “How long has Hamish been in your chair.”

                  “Not long. Maybe a year? He spent a bit of time with Mr. and Mrs. Williams, and with this nice old man named Wilfred. He’s been moved around a lot, I’m afraid, but in good homes. And he’s gotten a good education. He’s so smart, that one, that he got into a really good school. He might be too smart, sometimes.”

                  John felt a bit emotional at the thought of Hamish being shipped around from place to place, never being with a family long enough to call it home. Sherlock, though, was busy trying to sort out the sordid logic of it all.

                  “Now hold on!” he snapped. “This is utter rubbish. The Doctor came to us for the first time a month ago and more or less directed us to get out of this century as quick as we could. Why would he bother to drop our son off if he wanted us to leave?”

                  Craig shrugged, utterly flummoxed. “I couldn’t say. We’ve tried to do right by Hamish, but we don’t know the full story. Sophie’s an amazing mum, and even though our budget’s a bit tight, we’ve tried to give him everything he needs. But if you want him back…you have every right to do.”

                  John and Sherlock looked at each other, and Craig rose and picked up Alfie, apparently sensing that they needed to talk. “I’ll just be in the kitchen if you need me,” he said, then disappeared.

                  Sherlock was still looking questioningly at John. “I don’t know,” John said in answer to his look. “I hardly fit to be a parent. I wouldn’t know the first thing, and we know we’ll be in 1895 in the very new future. Are we supposed to take Hamish with us? We’re going to be there, stranded, without money or jobs or connections and have to start all over. I’m properly worried about how we’ll take care of _ourselves_ , let alone a ten year old child.”

                  “Mmm, and let’s not forget he problematic detail of two men raising a child in the 1890s. A child have ‘two daddies’ turns heads in 2012,” Sherlock pointed out.

                  “How could the Doctor shove a choice like this at us? Does emotionally torturing us save the universe or something?” John burst out.

                  “Perhaps we could give Hamish the choice,” Sherlock said after a moment of thinking.

                  “Sherlock, he’s ten. This decision is going to change his entire life!”

                  “Has it not occurred to you that _us_ deciding _for_ him will have an equally large impact on his life?”

                  Sherlock was right, of course. John nodded slowly, pressing his lips together. “I wish we had more time to give him. I wish we had more time to get to know him.”

                  “It’s hardly an ideal situation, but our lives have fallen into a striking pattern of far from ideal situations lately, so it’s hardly productive to fret about it.”

                  John glared over at him, even though he knew Sherlock was only speaking logical.

                  Craig came back in with Alfie. “Any questions for me?”

                  “We just—I think we both want to know about him,” John said. “What’s he like? What does he like to do?”

                  Craig sat down and pulled Alfie onto his knee, casting a loving eye on his as he began to speak. If he cared for Hamish half as much, John thought, then the boy had been in good hands. That relaxed him somewhat.

                  “Well, he _loves_ to read, especially adventure stories and books about how things work. He’s not much one for sports, but he can run fast when he wants to! And he’s a strong little fellow.” Craig smiled. “Honestly, sometimes I have no idea what he’s talking about. And he tends to…know things. About me, about our neighbors. It’s spooky, almost, except he never tries to be mean. He’s got a good heart. He’s kind to other children and he has a few friends, but he likes his alone time. As I said before, he’s extremely gifted, especially at science.”

                  The doctor and the detective couldn’t help but smile quietly and swell with pride for Hamish.

                  “Would you like to see his room?” Craig asked.

                  “Would he mind?” John asked.

                  “Nah, he’d be thrilled. He loves showing off his things. Come on.” Craig hefted Alfie into his arms and led them down the hall.

                  Sherlock was especially eager to take a look. Nothing held more clues to a personality than a bedroom, especially a child’s bedroom. Before even set foot into, the room he knew the child as well as he knew himself and John. It took his eyes seconds to scan over the room: bug collection on a shelf crammed with books, most of which were nonfiction, although there were several large stacks of adventure stories crammed in as well. His bed was unmade and there was a stack of gum wrappers on his bedside table, all different brands.

                  John had noticed this too. “Gum chewer?”

                  “For experiments,” Craig and Sherlock said at the same time, and Sherlock grinned and rubbed his hands together.

                  “Yeah…” Craig said, looking dazed. “He was testing chewing gum elasticity or something. Like I said, often I don’t even understand what he’s talking about it.”

                  While Sherlock examined the contents of Hamish’s wardrobe, John was drawn to the crayon drawings tacked up above Hamish’s disorderly little desk. In one drawing, he could clearly decipher Hamish with the Doctor. Another showed him, Craig, Alfie, and a blonde woman who must have been Sophie. Two others showed an old man—Wilfred—and another showed a couple, a man with a scribble of brown hair and a large “V” for a nose, and a red haired woman, most likely the Williams. There was another picture on the desk, not yet tacked up, of Hamish standing between two distinctly male but ambiguous looking stick figures. Hamish’s two mystery “dads.” John picked the picture up to examine it more closely, walking over to show Sherlock and nearly tripping over a cricket bat poking out from under the boy’s bed.

                  Sherlock examined the picture carefully, and John noticed the space mobile above the bed. “Sherlock, look. _Someone_ doesn’t find the solar system useless.”

                  “Yes, I saw,” he said testily.

                  The front door opened and slammed. “Hamish is home,” Craig said, leaning off the door frame. They followed him down the hallway to the living room, where Hamish was flinging down his book bag and holding a bag of ice to the back of his head.

                  He turned, wide-eyed to look at John and Sherlock.

                  “Hamish, what happened to you?” Craig asked.

                  “A fight.” Hamish didn’t take his eyes of John and Sherlock.

                  “ _Again_? Hamish…” Craig sighed.

                  “He was making fun of me! I had to clock him!” John winced, reminded of the many scrapes he’d gotten into on the playground. Hamish turned back to the two men. “What are you two doing here? Are you my dads?”

                  “Can we speak to you in your room, Hamish?” Sherlock asked.

                  Hamish looked at Craig for permission, who nodded, then marched off to his bedroom, still holding the ice to his head.

                  John patted the bed for Hamish to sit down. He looked up at them, an eyebrow raised in a decidedly Sherlock fashion.

                  “We just found out today that….we’re your parents,” John said. “We didn’t know before because, well, it’s impossible for two men to have a son.” He reddened and cleared his throat. “As you know. But I’m John, and this is Sherlock, and….and it’s…it’s really nice to meet you, Hamish. Hello.”

                  Sherlock looked down at Hamish and attempted a smile, surprised by how nervous he felt.

                  Hamish’s eyes widened as John talked, then hopped off the bed and, to both John and Sherlock’s surprise, grabbed them around their waists to hug them.  His voice was muffled he buried his face in Sherlock’s side. “I _knew_ you were my dads! You had to be! We match!”

                  It was such a concise way of putting it that both of them smiled, and John dropped to one knee to hug Hamish properly.

                  “So am I coming to live with you now?” Hamish asked.

                  “We want you to, Hamish,” John said. “But things are…complicated.” He looked up at Sherlock, unsure how to explain their predicament.

                  Sherlock looked down at the boy. “How much do you know about the Doctor?”

                  Hamish sat back down on the bed as Sherlock began pacing and explaining everything as John sat next to him. He listened carefully as he rattled off information about how they met the Doctor, their run-ins with the weeping angels, and their plans to surrender and return to 1895.

                  John wished he’d slow down a bit; it was a lot for a young child to process, but Hamish was nodding and listening carefully, seemingly taking it all in stride.

                  “We’re fairly certain the Doctor had something to do with your…genesis, but we’re not sure. How old are you?”

                  “Nine and half,” Hamish said.

                  “See, John and I hadn’t even known each other nine and a half years ago, which leads me to deduce that time travel must have been involved. That’s all we know so far,” Sherlock finished.

                  He watched Hamish closely. Hamish frowned a bit, thinking, then turned to John. “So you two are time travelers? Amazing! Can I come with you?”

                  “Hamish, you must understand that once we go back to 1895, we shall be living there permanently. We’re not like the Doctor. We can’t travel around to whenever we want. Life is going to be very different back then. It’ll be more dangerous in a lot of ways, life will be harder and more frustrating.”

                  “We’ll understand if you want to stay, Hamish,” John said, wrapping an arm around the boy’s thin shoulders.

                  “So you don’t want me to go?” Hamish asked.                 

                  “No, of course we want you to come if that’s what you want. But it’s going to be hard. We don’t know anything about parenting, and we won’t be able to tell people we’re your parents in 1895,” John explained.

                  “I want to go. 1895, that’s when Queen Victoria lived! And people rode in carriages, and Britain had a huge empire! Could we go to India, like Rudyard Kipling? What’s life going to be like? What are schools like? What kinds of clothes will I have to wear?”

                  “We’ll be learning together, I suppose,” Sherlock said, moving to his knees in front of Hamish.

                  Hamish sprang into Sherlock’s arms, hugging him tightly, and Sherlock, after a moment of surprise, wrapped his arms around him. John smiled and wondered if Sherlock had ever hugged a child before. Evidently not, judging by the way he was looking at John, as if to ask, “Am I doing this right?”

                  When Hamish pulled away, he looked at John. “When do we leave?”

 

                  There was paperwork to sort out with Craig, which Sherlock handled while John helped Hamish pack. It felt less like helping than watching Hamish tear around the room, piling his few possessions untidily into a suitcase.

                  Hamish considered the heap of clothes and books on the bed. “I can use a smaller bag if I have to. When you get moved ‘round so much, you learn to only pick your best and favorite stuff to take with you.”

                  John stepped over to help Hamish fold things. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you. Being moved around, not having a proper home. It must get hard.”

                  Hamish didn’t seem too upset as he said, “Oh, the doctor’s got nice friends. Sometimes Craig and Sophie let me go visit Rory and Amy—“

                  “Mr. and Mrs. Williams?” John clarified.

                  “Well, _I_ don’t call them that,” Hamish said. “And Wilfred came to visit me over my birthday last year. Although I don’t know if it’s my actual birthday or not.” He frowned at his sloppily folded jumper and shook it out to start over. “Do _you_ know when my birthday is?”

                  John shook his head. “No. But we we’re going to try and find out. We still don’t know how you were created, but you’re definitely ours. Did you know Hamish is my second name?”

                  “It said so on your identity card. That’s one of the reasons we match.” He pushed a stack of clothes back into the suitcase. “Why’s _my_ second name _Mycroft_? Did _you_ pick that?”

                  “Mycroft is Sherlock’s brother. Feel lucky that you’ll never have to meet him.” John couldn’t imagine Mycroft liking children, even a clever nephew. He zipped up the suitcase. “There! Are you sure you packed everything?”

                  Hamish nodded, picking up his suitcase and looking around his room. “Will I get my own room living with you and Sherlock? How long are we staying in _now_ times?”

                  John scrubbed his face. He would love to know the answer to that question. “We’ve no idea, except that it’ll be soon. That’s why you must say goodbye to Craig and Alfie and Sophie today. All right?”

                  “Right now?” Hamish looked a bit taken aback.

                  God, this was too much to put on the shoulders of a nine year old. John looked down at him and nodded grimly, but Hamish nodded back.

                  When they returned to the living room, Sherlock turned to him. “No time for real paperwork, but Craig’s worried that if Hamish just up and disappears, child protection might take Alfie.”

                  “Could Mycroft help?”

                  “I’ve already texted him. He says he can get the right people to turn a blind eye.” Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the phone, wondering if that would be the last time he ever texted Mycroft.

                  “Did you explain that Hamish is your son?” John asked, and Sherlock snorted.

                  “Of course not. He’d have me transported to an upscale home for the insane within a day.”

 

                  Sophie was home before the hour was out, and Craig explained the situation. John and Sherlock lagged outside the living room as Craig and Sophie said their goodbyes to Hamish.

                  “Are we doing the right thing?” John whispered to Sherlock as they waited. “I mean, he _is_ our son, but 1895 is going to be a whole new life for us. What we going to do when you’re on a case and I’m treating patients? I don’t imagine we’ll be changing our whole habits just because we’re in the past.”

                  “Hm. Raising up a child in a different century. Could be dangerous.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked sideways to John’s, and John couldn’t help but smile.

                  It was all absurd, frightening, and undeniably exciting.


	13. Chapter 13

Hamish was an uncontainable streak of energy in the flat in Baker Street. He wanted to look at everything. The skull—“Wow! Is that _real?!_ ” The bookshelves—“So many! Can I read them?” Sherlock’s microscope—“Wow, this is _brilliant,_ much better than the ones at school!” The fridge—“Are those…fingers? JAM!”, the angels—“Why’re they wearing silly hats?”. He grabbed the deerstalker off one of them. “Dad! You’re that detective, the one who fake-died! Put it on!”

                  Sherlock obliges, shoving the hat down on his head and bore it for a few seconds while Hamish grinned in delight. “Wow…I have a famous dad,” he breathed.

                  Sherlock smiled despite his loathing of the hat, then ripped it off and tossed it at John, who put it back on the angel.

                  Hamish ran to Sherlock’s bedroom, where the sheets were still tangled from the previous night’s activities. “Wow, this room is messy! Where am I going to sleep?”

                  “Upstairs. Here, we’ll take your suitcase up—“ John started, but Hamish had already bolted up the stairs to look.

                  John turned to Sherlock, laughing. “Well…I think he likes us.”

                  Hamish raced back down and grabbed his suitcase. “It’s perfect!”

                  “Don’t get too settled, Hamish,” John warned.

                  “Right, right, 1895!” Hamish yelled as he ran back up the stairs with his suitcase.

                  “He doesn’t seem too worried about living in a different century,” John said.

                  “Mm. Children are remarkably resilient, based on my observations,” Sherlock said, sinking into his chair.

                  Hamish soon raced downstairs again. “I unpacked the important things. Ooh, who plays the violin?”

                  “I do.” Sherlock picked up the violin from where it rested by the hearth and played a couple of trills before setting it back down.

                  “Hamish, would you like a cup of tea, or some cocoa? I’ll fix you some,” John said, moving to the kitchen. He needed something to do to calm his nerves.

                  Sherlock sank into his chair, drawing his knees up to his chest and steepling his fingers under his chin.

                  Hamish looked at Sherlock sitting in his chair and cocked his head to the side before sitting up and drawing his own knees to is chest. He steepled his fingers as well, mirroring Sherlock.

                  Sherlock continued to stare off into the distance without noticing, eventually moving his steepled fingers up against his lips, and Hamish did the same, pretending to stare off into the distance.

                  John came back with some cocoa and laughed aloud at what a perfect mimic Hamish was doing. He set the cocoa down and set about making himself some tea, humming without realizing he was doing so. He felt comfortable in a way he hadn’t before, even with the ominous stone angels in their flat.

                  Sherlock finally noticed Hamish from the corner of his eye, and looked over at him.

                  “What are you doing?”

                  Hamish’s frown mirrored his dad’s. “What are _you_ doing?”

                  “Thinking.”

                  “Me too.”

                  Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a smile. “About what?”

                  “What are you thinking about?”

                  “Experiments I want to try,” Sherlock lied.

                  “Me too.”

                  Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Hamish. Hamish raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Would you like to see my research?”

                  “Ooh, yes!”

                  John rolled his eyes as he poured his tea. “Hamish, don’t inflate your father’s ego. It’s already big enough. You’ll be bored to tears, Hamish!”

                  Hamish seemed engrossed, however, by the thick file documenting tobacco ash and mud compositions and charts comparing liquid viscosity.

                  “I want to be a detective too—or a doctor. Wouldn’t it be great to cut people open and see what’s inside?” Hamish turned to John. “Do _you_ do that, Dad?”

                  John came over with his tea and settled in his chair. “I used to. I was actually a doctor in the war, but I was shot and sent home. That’s how I met your dad. I needed a flatmate.” John smiled to himself. He couldn’t help but wish things would stay like this. If only they could stay comfortable in their own time period, solving crimes and helping their son grow up in the world they already knew well.

                  “Hamish, do you want to play a game? We’ve got Cluedo, or cards.”

                  “What’s Cluedo?”

                  “You’ve never played Cluedo? That’s it, we’re playing,” John declared, grabbing the board game and heroically ignoring Sherlock’s massive eyeroll. He explained the rules and Sherlock interjected snide remarks about the rules being idiotic. John got flustered and defensive of the game, and all the while Hamish was amused by both of his dads and quickly picked up the rules of the game.

                  Sherlock rolled the dice. “This is completely unrealistic. This game should at least present you with the possibility that he committed suicide. He can’t be _murdered_ every time. It’s not logical.” He slammed his game piece onto a spot on the board.

                  “Sherlock, it’s just a game, behave,” John muttered. “Your turn, Hamish.”

                  “Yeah, Dad, it’s just a game,” Hamish said, moving his piece into the conservatory.

                  Sherlock opened his mouth and clamped it shut, not sure how to respond to being told off by a 9-year-old.

                  John bit down a laugh as Sherlock glared at the boy. “It’s all right, Hamish, your dad’s just a sore loser,” John said, leaning in to whisper, “I beat him every time and he can’t stand it.”

                  Sherlock muttered, darkly picking up the tiny metal revolver. “Real crimes haven’t got stupid rules like this.”

                  Hamish laughed. “He’s not very good at games, is he?”

                  John laughed outright as Sherlock shot him a death glare. “Your _Dad_ likes this juvenile game because it’s the only chance he has to feel superior to me.”

                  “Well, add ‘Milton Bradley’ to your list of enemies, then, and meanwhile I can win the game by guessing Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the lead pipe.”

                  Hamish bounced up and down. “Wrong! You’re wrong! It was Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the candlestick!”

                  Hamish was right, the cards quickly showed, and he was unabashedly elated at winning. “This game’s brilliant! It’s like what Dad does, right?”

                  “It’s not a think like what I do,” Sherlock muttered. “As you’ll quickly learn if you delve into detective work.” He glanced at the time on his phone. “It’s nearly nine. Isn’t that a normal bedtime for a nine year old?”

                  “I’m not tired,” Hamish said through a stifled yawn.

                  “Right. You need to go to bed,” John said, groaning a bit as he stood up.

                  Hamish stood as well, then looked up hopefully at John. “Will you…both…tuck me in?”

                  John, touched to the core, looked into Hamish’s big eyes and nodded. “Yeah, you go change and we’ll be up in a bit.”

                 

                  “Tucking in…what does that all entail?” Sherlock murmured as they climbed the stairs. He himself had never been tucked into bed as a child. He’d heard it referenced, but had never seen the significance.

                  John smiled. “It’s easy….I think. Just follow my lead.”

                  They stepped into Hamish’s room. Hamish was waiting in bed, sitting up expectantly. John sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the covers as Hamish lay down. He tucked the blankets up to his chin and moved a hand over Hamish’s hair. Hamish closed his eyes, looking utterly peaceful. “Goodnight, Hamish. See you in the morning.” John kissed his forehead.

                  “Night, Dad.” He cracked and eye open to look up at Sherlock. “Night, Dad.”

                  Sherlock shifted his weight uncomfortably, debating what to do, then finally leaned over to place a kiss on Hamish’s forehead as well. “Sleep well. We’ll be downstairs if you need us.”

                  John clicked out the light on their way out.

                  “Did I do all right?” Sherlock murmured.

                  “You were perfect,” John whispered.

                  “You’re going to be a much better father than I will,” Sherlock said as they went into their own bedroom.

                  “Not true. My father wasn’t exactly a great role model. Why do you think Harry took up drinking? Dear old Dad taught her all his best tricks.” He kicked off his shoes and pulled off his jumper.

                  Sherlock considered this as he unbuttoned his suit and shirt. He thought of his own father, a stern, often-absent man who had frowned on rituals like tucking in or stories or other methods of coddling.

                  As they slid into bed, John remarked, “I can’t believe how quickly Hamish trusted us, as if…he grew up with us. He’s so comfortable around us.”

                  “Mm.” Sherlock tossed on his pyjamas crawled into bed. “Yes, he acclimated much quicker than I expected. The whole thing is inexplicable. I just want answers. The whole boy is a complete mystery, yet I feel I already know him inside and out.”

                  “Right. It doesn’t feel like we met him this morning.” John clicked off the light and curled in next to Sherlock, resting his head on his chest. “He fits us. It’s odd…” He closed his eyes, already feeling himself beginning to drift off.

                  Sherlock wrapped his arm around John, and quoted Hamish from earlier. “We match.”

 

                  John woke up to Hamish looking down at him. “You look funny when you’re asleep.” he did an impression of sleeping John, letting his mouth gape open and his tongue hang out. “I wanted to know how to use your toaster oven, and you didn’t keep the manual, did you, because I can’t find it anywhere.”

                  John stretched and sat up. “I’ll show you. What d’you fancy? Toast and jam?”

                  “Yes, _please!_ ”                 

                  John moved carefully out of bed to avoid waking up Sherlock and showed Hamish how to work the toaster oven, wondering in the back of his mind how one went about toasting bread without electricity. Coal ovens?

                  Sherlock came out a minute later, fully dressed, and stepped over to give John a little kiss while Hamish’s back was turned.

                  “I can see you in the oven reflection, you know,” Hamish said slyly. “Also, this toaster’s highly inefficient! Do you know how I know? I can feel the hot air all over my face, which means heat isn’t being conserved properly. Plus the knob is sticky and it’s really old.”

                  There was a tentative knock on the door then, and Mrs. Hudson’s voice called out, “Boys? Mind if I come in?”

                  Sherlock and John looked at each other, momentarily frozen.

                  “Hamish, go to our room,” Sherlock whispered “It’ll take far too long to explain you to our landlady.”

                  “I heard you were up and I brought some freshly baked croissants.” She entered carrying the plate of pastries just as Hamish slipped into Sherlock’s bedroom. “How’s your head, Sherlock?”

                  “Mmm, it’s fine,” Sherlock said distractedly, taking a bite of a croissant.

                  “Sherlock, I heard some strange noises in the basement apartment last night. I wondered if you or John wouldn’t mind having a look. I’m worried that some animal might’ve gotten trapped down there, and I’m not up for dealing with that. My hip, you know—“

                  “Of course, Mrs. Hudson,” John said.

                  “We’ll be down in a few minutes,” Sherlock said.

                  As soon as Mrs. Hudson was gone, Hamish burst out, taking a croissant. “An animal? Do you think it’s a fox? Can I come look?”

                  “I think you should come with, Hamish. Go get dressed,” Sherlock said, staring hard at the wall.

                   John looked over at him, chewing through a croissant. “Do you reckon it’s—“

                  “Could be,” Sherlock said. “I think we should stick together, just in case.

                  Hamish came downstairs to find John and Sherlock pulling on their coats. “Why’re you putting on your coats?”

                  “Because 1895 could be around the corner. We just can’t be sure, Hamish, so it’s best you put yours on, too.”

                  “What do you mean 1895 is right around the corner?”

                  “We never did explain about the angels, John,” Sherlock muttered.

                  “Probably because it sounds mental,” John said.

                  “Angels, what angels?” Hamish asked, buttoning his coat.

                  John kneeled in front of Hamish, trying to explain about the stone angels and the cracks and the universe and the Doctor’s part in it all. It was a lot to take in, and he searched Hamish’s face when all was said. “We’re all going to have to blink together, you see. If the angels are in fact down there.”

                  Hamish frowned, but nodded. John rose and took his hand. “Are you sure you want to do this, Hamish? If you don’t want to come, this might be your last chance to say so. You could go back to live with Craig and Sophie.”

                  “I don’t want you to leave me here,” Hamish said.

                  Sherlock gave him a sad smile. “Right.” He cleared his coat pockets of his keys, wallet, and phone, which would be useless in 1895, and stashed his magnifying glass, whatever food would fit in his pockets, and an antique telescope he might be able to hawk for some money.

                  “Dad? Can you wear the hat?” Hamish pointed at the deerstalker resting on the angel.

                  Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but nodded stiffly. “Of course.” He grabbed the hat and pulled it on.

                  John and Sherlock gave the flat a final sweep with their eyes, and they tramped downstairs. “Mrs. Hudson, if we don’t come back up, don’t come looking for us, just call the police,” Sherlock called into Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

                  “But—“ she stepped out to question them, but they’d already moved down the stairs of the apartment, locking the door behind them. John grabbed Hamish’s hand, who in turn took Sherlock’s.

                  There were no animals in sight, but as they reached the final step of the flat, four stone angels were lined up in front of them, staring straight at them, hands outstretched.

                  John’s hair stood on edge, even though he’d been expecting the sight. Hamish yelped in surprise and squeezed his dads’ hands tighter.

                  “Will it hurt?” he asked.

                  “Of course not,” Sherlock lied. He couldn’t be sure. “On my count, blink.” His voice held only a slight tremor as he counted. “One…two…three…”

                  All three squeezed their eyes shut at the same time.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we're off to 1895 at long last!!

                  When they opened their eyes, they were still in a cellar, the same shape as the one they were in a second ago, but the floor was dirt and there were crates stacked in the corners. Herbs hung from the beams above their heads. From the tiny high window, the clatter of horse hooves sounded. The angels were gone.                 

                  “Where are we?” Hamish asked.

                  “Right where we were. 221 Baker Street. 1895,” John said in a hushed voice, although he was unable to believe it.

                  Sherlock looked over to John, then turned around to face the cellar door. Hamish kept a tight grip on his fathers’ hands as they climbed the stairs and stepped into what used to be—or what _would become—_ Mrs. Hudson’s flat. The place was entirely unrecognizable, however. Gone were the settees and the knit kettle cozies, replaced with dark wooden furniture, kerosene lamps, Persian rugs, and patterned wallpaper.

                  A young woman stepped into the room, looked up and nearly dropped the tea tray she was holding, gasping loudly.

                  “It’s all right, it’s all right!” Sherlock said, holding out his hands defensively.

                  “Who—who—how—“ she stuttered, setting the tea tray on the table and backing away from them. “Mr. Doyle!”

                  Arthur Conan Doyle stalked in and stared wide-eyed at Sherlock and John. “ _You!_ How did you get in? What are you doing here?”

                  It was a very good question. John looked at Sherlock in hopes that would come up with some sort of logic out of this, but Sherlock ignored the question entirely. “The flat above you…is it available to let? We were thinking it would suit our needs perfectly.”

                  Mr. Doyle harrumphed. “So you thought you’d just barge in and make yourself at home? Inspecting the fireplace again, are we? Were you aware that I was attempting a very important séance when you violated my property?”

                  John raised his eyebrows. He’d read up a bit on Mr. Doyle after they’d met him, and it seems that he was quite the spiritualist, but it was still strange thinking about a grown, intelligent man trying to convene with spirits.

                  When he got no answer from them, Mr. Doyle stepped up to them. “You expect me to let the flat above mine to two ruffians who barge into my home without asking? And who does this waif belong to?” He looked down at Hamish, who stared up at him, wide-eyed.

                  “This is my son, Hamish Watson. I’m a widower and Sherlock was my wife’s…brother. He’s helping me look after him, as we are both bachelors.”

                  “And your occupations?” Doyle asked.

                  “We are, as of now, unemployed. We’ve just moved to the city, but we hope to have jobs soon.”

                  “These are tight times for all of us. What makes you so sure?” Doyle asked, narrowing his eyes.

                  “Because we are masters in our respective fields and it would be absurd not to hire us,” Sherlock interjected.

                  “Well! Come back at the end of the day with a job contract from at least one of you, and then perhaps we’ll talk about letting the flat.”

                  It was a reasonable enough request from Doyle’s perspective, but an entirely daunting task for John and Sherlock, who had no identification or proof of their credentials at all.

                  “How—how does one go about finding a job in London?” John asked, noticing that Sherlock had bent to whisper something in Hamish’s ear, then stood to scan the flat.

                  “Goodness, you haven’t any _connections_? My, my, this city shall eat you up and spit you in the Thames in less than a fortnight,” Doyle proclaimed.

                  Hamish stepped forward. “You’re a _writer_? You write books and things? Have you written anything that I’ve read?”

                  Doyle frowned down at Hamish and his odd clothing, skeptical of the boy’s reading ability, but tickled that he was taking an interest in his passion. “I’ve written some adventure stories and some histories.”

                  “ Wow! Adventure stories? I love those! Brilliant! I’ve never met a real writer before!” Hamish took another step toward Doyle to shake his hand, but tripped on the edge of the rug and smashed into him.

                  “Goodness, do be careful!” Doyle said, catching Hamish, who quickly regained his balance and backed away. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to…”

                  John eyed Sherlock suspiciously, who was smiling in amusement.

                  “Its’ fine, just fine. Only be more careful next time,” Doyle said, his annoyance fading.

                  “We should go, then,” John said. Once they were out the door, he turned to Hamish. “All right, what did Sherlock tell you to snitch?”

                  Grinning, Hamish pulled a decently filled coin purse from his jumper.

                  “Ha! That’s my boy,” Sherlock crowed, ruffling Hamish’s hair.

                  “Lovely. Glad to know that our financial situation is sorted. We’ll teach our son how to pickpocket like a proper street urchin while simultaneously making enemies with our potential landlord. Oh, yes. We’re going to flourish in the century—“ John’s grumblings faded away as he was taken in by the scope of the crowded London street.

                  Without busses, a very new and quite limited tube station, and next to no cars, there were far more pedestrians, and those not on foot were riding in carriages or hansom cabs or riding carts laden with produce or supplies.

                  John was quick to notice that he was the only man not wearing a hat. Sherlock still had his deerstalker on, remarkably. He must have noticed that he would look less conspicuous with it on than off.

                  The men kept a tight grip on Hamish’s hands so he wouldn’t be post in the bustle of newspaper vendors, flower sellers, ladies daintily holding up their skirts from the street’s muck, urchins who let their hands wander toward unattended money purses, and delivery boys, arms laden with parcels and goods.

                  “Why does it smell so bad here?” Hamish asked.

                  There certainly was a smell to Baker Street, and it seemed to roll off everything—the people, the buildings, the muck in the streets.

                  “Pollution, poor hygiene, and poorer sewer systems,” Sherlock said.

                  “Do you think St. Bart’s is hiring?” John asked. He knew that St. Bartholomew’s hospital was at least still around. It was the oldest hospital in London.

                  “Worth a try,” Sherlock said. “I know pick-pocketing Mr. Doyle isn’t the ideal solution, but we look like a group of nutters in our clothes. No one is going to give you a job if you’re dressed like that, John, no matter how talented you are. Now that we’ve got _this—_ “ He grabbed the purse. “—Thank you, Hamish—we can hopefully afford some proper attire for you, and possibly get a…cab ride.” He eyed a passing carriage.

                  “So you stole money to take me suit shopping?”

                  “Obviously. Unless you want Hamish to become an actual street urchin.”

                  Hamish laughed at his dads’ bickering, looking at everything with dinner plate eyes.

                  They wandered in confusion down the street, past residential areas to a street with more shops, finally finding a menswear store. Once inside, they quickly learned that most suits were tailored on request. When they explained that it was an emergency, the tailor frowned and took John’s measurements, disappearing into the back and appearing with a suit that he thought might be a close match.

                    
                  “I’m not certain if this is the style you were looking for—“

                  “No, it’s fine, thank you.”

                  John slipped inside a changing booth and pulled it on, feeling odd buttoning trousers without a zipper, and even odder as he buttoned the waistcoat and thought about wearing it as part of a daily ensemble. He slipped the coat on, which was a trifle long in the arms but altogether passable, and stepped out for Sherlock’s approval, leaving his modern shoes on, deciding they weren’t horribly futuristic looking.

                  “What do you think?” He longed to put his jumper back on.

                  Sherlock smiled, resisting the urge to kiss him, and Hamish clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle his giggling.

                  “Yes, that’s right, have a good laugh,” John said, although he couldn’t help smiling a bit himself, especially when Sherlock grabbed a bowler hat from a stand and set it on John’s head.

                  The tailor held up a mirror for John to look at himself. He smoothed his hand along the hat's brown brim. “My exact size, Sherlock. Did you measure my skull circumference while I slept, or did you just do an eyeball estimate.”

                  The tailor raised an eyebrow but said, “A fine fit. Bowlers suit you, sir.”

                  John frowned a bit. The Doctor had said the exact same thing.  

                  “Dad, you look hilarious! Can I try your hat on?”

                  “I don’t look hilarious, I look…dapper. Right, Sherlock?”

                  “ _Very_.”

 

            They had enough money to hire a cab to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. John felt much less self-conscious in his suit. In his long coat and his hat, Sherlock didn’t look absurdly out of place, and Hamish was only a boy, so some odd clothing choice could be explained away by a number of possibilities.

                  In the cab, Sherlock watched Victorian London pass by. He looked at each person they passed, calculating, annoyed that they weren’t quite as easy to read as he was used to. The basics were all still the same, however, he was happy to find. The apple vendor was having an affair, obviously. The shop on the corner had recently come under new management. Still, there was much to learn.

                  “Did you know doctors during this time only made £100-200 a _year_?” John said.

                  “Yes, but that suit I just bought only cost a half-sovereign and two shillings,” Sherlock said, jingling the coins left in the bag.

                  “Oh, God, that’s right, we’re back to Imperial system,” John groaned. “I think I had to learn about that in primary school. What is it, 21 shillings to a guinea?”

                  “And 20 shillings to a pound,” Hamish added proudly.

                  “ _Then why bother with the guinea at all_?” John fumed, and Sherlock smiled.

                 

                  Once out of the cab, they headed inside St. Bart’s. The old façade outside looked much the same, but the inside was much changed.

                  Sherlock and Hamish waited on a bench near the door as John approached the front desk. St. Bart’s was a large hospital, even now. Surely there had to be some sort of job vacancy.

                  “Hello, I’m here to ask about a job.”

                  “You saw the advert, did you? For the surgeon job?”

                  John nodded, his heart lifting at his luck, and the man rang a bell from his desk to fetch someone.

 

                  Meanwhile, Sherlock was perched on the bench next to Hamish, his elbows propped on his knees, steepled fingers against his lips. He glanced over at Hamish, who had taken up the same pose. “Why do you do that?” Sherlock asked curiously.

                  “Because you do,” Hamish said over his small steepled fingers. “Are we going to find crimes to solve, Dad?”

                  “Oh, undoubtedly. London is still full of crime, I imagine. _You_ however, are going to be in school.”

                  Hamish looked crestfallen. “But people in this time period don’t _know_ anything! They haven’t even discovered penicillin or boron yet!”

                  Sherlock only smiled at that, staring ahead, so Hamish settled back in his chair, sighing. His eyes followed a passing doctor. “That man’s got a secret, hasn’t he? Look at how he’s holding that folder.”

                  Sherlock leaned over to observe how the man clutched the folder to his chest. “Yes, indeed. Knuckles white from gripping it so hard, sweat visible on the forehead.” He looked over at Hamish, impressed. “What else can you see?”

                  Hamish cocked his head, considering. “He doesn’t make enough money, or he’s cutting corners. His haircut’s uneven, so that means he cuts it himself—or has a bad barber. But if he does cut it himself, it means he lives alone. His shoes are polished but that’s to hide that they’re old. I could see how worn down the heel was even from here!” He sat back, satisfied. “Did I miss anything?”

                  Sherlock swelled with pride, but raised an eyebrow at his son. “Is he right- or left-handed?”

                  Hamish pursed his mouth like John and furrowed his eyebrows like Sherlock. “I can’t tell,” he finally admitted after scanning the man again.

                  “Left-handed. See how he carries the folder in his right so he can open the door with his dominant hand? The haircut’s the definite giveaway, though. As you noticed, he cuts his own hair, and see how it’s just a bit shorter on the right, as it’s easier for him to reach, and a bit more jagged on the left?”

                  Hamish sat back in his chair, frustrated. “I’m never going to be as good as you are.”

                  “I have a few years on you, remember,” Sherlock reminded him, running his hand through Hamish’s dark hair, feeling a surge of love for the boy. “I’m glad you came with us, Hamish.”

                  Hamish smiled and scooted closer to lean against his dad.

 

                 

                  The interviewer was well impressed with John’s medical background, which he’d been mostly truthful with, changing a few dates and details to fit the time period.

                  “Did you bring your medical certificate?”

                  John shook his head. He’d thought up a lie for this in the cab. “My household recently suffered from a fire. I had been operating a business from home, but that’s all gone now, so I thought I would offer my services to the hospital. My papers were burned in the fire, but I can pass any medical test you give me, I assure you.”

                  After some more questions and mutterings about the entire procedure being “most irregular,” the interviewer finally agreed to test John’s skills, provided he came up with new licensure papers in reasonable time.

                 

                  An hour and a half later, John finally emerged in the foyer, triumphantly holding a paper in his hand.

                  “You got it? Even without the papers?” Sherlock asked.

                  “I took a brief test, was all. The requirements for medical hiring have changed a lot over the years, I’ll tell you. I had to bite my tongue from correcting them on some of the questions. But I start as surgeon on Monday!”

                  Sherlock stood to kiss him, but noticed a group of men down the hall and backed away.

                  “…What day is it now, anyway?” John wondered as they stepped back outside.

 

                  John wasn’t to be paid until after the first week, and the rent on 221B was 2 guineas a week. They paid Doyle the last of his own money save for a few farthings, then stepped up to see the flat.

                  Sherlock pushed the door open half expecting to see it just how they left it, with John’s laptop on the table, the stone angels frozen near the kitchen, and his violin propped in its usual spot.

                  The space was of course entirely different. The fireplace was in the same spot, but the floor was covered in an old rug. There were a few pieces of furniture with dusty sheets thrown over them, but it was mostly barren.

                  “Hm. We’ll have a great deal of work to do,” Sherlock frowned as John and Hamish stepped in.

                  “Until the money from my job starts coming in, we’re going to be in a tight spot,” John said, looking up at Sherlock. “Pick-pocketing might have to do us for a while, unless you happen to catch a criminal and collect a reward.”

                  “Now _there’s_ an idea. Start-up money,” Sherlock grinned, striding over to run a finger along the bare mantelpiece He felt a sudden stab of homesickness for the skull, the Cluedo board, his vast book collection, and most of all, his violin.

                  “I’m hungry,” Hamish said.

                  John considered this dilemma as he stepped into the kitchen. Gone was the fridge full of convenient if slightly off food, and the electric stove was replaced by an intimidating coal stove. Without a microwave and an electric kettle John was at a complete loss on what to do.

                  Mr. Doyle’s housekeeper poked her head in then. “Mr. Doyle sent me up to see if you were finding the flat to be to your liking,” she said. “Is it just the three of you? Neither of you have a…a wife?”

                  John shook his head.

                  “I’m Mary,” the maid said, meeting John’s eye. Sherlock looked over. She appeared to be roughly five years young than him, although it was evident she’d been a maid for all of her adult life. She had already been married, and quite recently, it would seem, as there was the faintest hint of a ring’s tan line on her left hand. A widow, then.

                  “I suppose you’ll be wanting a housekeeper then. I’m glad to provide my services. I’m experienced, and my rates are reasonable. I’m a fine cook, Mr. Doyle says so.”

                  “Yes, well, perhaps when we have to funds to hire you,” John mumbled.

                  Mary looked around. “Don’t you have any items that need moving in, sir?”

                  John used the fire lie once again to explain why they had no property to speak of. Mary’s eyes widened in sympathy.

                  “You poor dears! I’ll pop down and fetch you a pie from Mr.Doyle’s larder.”

                  “Mary, that’s hardly necessary,” John said.

                  “He’ll never miss it! I’ll not have you starve. It would hardly be Christian of me to do any different,” she insisted, then hurried downstairs.

                  “A real housekeeper,” John said. “She hardly knows what she’s in for, looking after _you_ , Sherlock.”

                  “Mm. The wall looks so _wrong_ without the bullet holes in it,” Sherlock muttered.

                  Hamish had already scurried upstairs to look at the spare bedroom and at the bedroom and privy downstairs. “There’s only one bed!” he announced when he came out of Sherlock’s room.

                  “We’ll sort out sleeping arrangements tonight,” John said.

                  Mary came back upstairs, empty-handed. “I explained your situation to Mr. Doyle, and he’s invited you all to join him for supper.

                  “Thank you, Mary,” John said gratefully.

                  “You’re very welcome, Mr…sorry, what were your names?”

                  “Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, and this is Hamish.”

                  “Whose son is he? He looks a bit like both of you,” Mary said.

                  “He resembles my sister,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. “Dr. Watson’s deceased wife.”

                  “Oh. Dear, I’m sorry to bring it up.” Mary looked bashfully at the floor for a moment.

                  “Not at all. We’re still growing used to the idea ourselves,” Sherlock said, putting some convincing emotion into his voice. “We’re all Hamish has now, and it’s difficult to make ends meet.”

                  John cast Sherlock a warning glance. _Ease off a bit from the pity party, eh?_

                  Mary looked at the two men with a new level of respect, which quickly faded when Sherlock asked conversationally, “So, when did your husband die? No more than a month, surely?”

                  John sighed and stared at the ceiling. Some things—like Sherlock being an oblivious twat—never changed.

                  Mary swallowed. “He died overseas, in India. I only got the news a few weeks ago. How did you know?”

                  She turned away to hurriedly wipe her eyes.

                  “Tan line from the ring. Went to visit him, did you? India would be a horrible place to die.”

                  Hamish tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve. “You’re making her _cry_ , Dad,” he whispered.

                  Sherlock glared down at Hamish, but sighed and said with some difficulty, “I’m…sorry. Forgive my rudeness.”

                  Mary shook her head. “It’s fine. You’re welcome to join Mr. Doyle in the parlor whenever you’d like. Dinner will be in an hour.” She gave a quick curtsey and headed out the door and down the steps.

 

                  An hour later, John, Sherlock and Hamish were all crowded into Arthur Conan Doyle’s parlor, Mr. Doyle fending off a barrage of questions from Hamish as Mary set the table and John examined his bookshelf from a respectful distance.

                  Mary announced that dinner was served, and everyone gathered at the table. “There are only four place settings,” John remarked as Mary disappeared back into the kitchen to begin the washing-up.

                  “Well, of course. There are four of us,” Doyle frowned.

                  “Mary’s not eating with us?” John asked.

                 

                  “The hired help, _dine at the table_? Honestly, you sound like you’re a Londoner, but it’s as if you three dropped out of the sky! Pass the gravy, if you could.”

                  Hamish gave Doyle a knowing look as he handed over the gravy boat a bit unsteadily. “We’ve been in Liverpool for the past few years.”

                  Doyle nodded as if that explained everything, and Sherlock covered his laughter with a cough. “Well, thank goodness you didn’t pick up that absurd Liverpudlian accent. Word is that the police believe the Belgravia Slasher might be originally from Liverpool. I’m hardly surprised. Did you hear he struck again last night? Ghastly business. Good fodder for a story, though.”

                   Sherlock’s eyes flashed. in excitement “There’s a murderer in Belgravia? For how long? How many deaths? What’s the murder weapon?”

                  Doyle stuttered, torn between his instinct to turn conversation back to more proper subjects and his relish for such a juicy story. “There have been five in the past month—all the victims took a knife to the heart _as well as_ the usual throat-slitting.” He looked over at Hamish, realizing he should have held his tongue in the company of the young boy, but Hamish was hanging to his every word. Sherlock, too, was engrossed.

                  “Does crime interest you, Mr. Holmes? London has plenty to offer, I’m afraid.”

                  “I make my _living_ off of crime, Mr. Doyle. I’m a consulting detective—the only one in the world. I invented the job. Is there more information on the case in the paper?” Sherlock asked Doyle.

                  Doyle stood up and walked over to a pile of papers on the chair, picking a leaf out. “Good thing for you I fail at keeping tidy—even Mary can’t keep up. The perils of being a bachelor, as you two must both understand. There’s an article in here, third page, I believe.”

                  Sherlock snatched up the paper, hungrily reading through the article, an expression of annoyance creeping onto his face the more he reads. Finally he drops the paper back onto the pile. “Drabble, all of it. I see the quality of journalism hasn’t changed…from Liverpool,” he amended hastily. “I’m going out tonight.”

                  “Going where? To the crime scene?! You must be raving mad!”

                  “Trust me, he is—but he’s done it hundreds of times, solved loads of cases for the police,” John said.

                  “Can I go with you?” Hamished asked, sitting bolt upright.

                  John touched Hamish’s shoulder. “Tracking alleyway slashers is hardly suitable activity for an eight-year-old.”

                  “ _So_? It’s not a suitable activity for a doctor _either_ ,” Hamish countered.

                  “ _Army_ doctor. And I won’t be going tonight. I’ll be looking after you.”

                   Hamish slumps into his seat, pouting.

                  “You’ve solved other crimes, then? You’ll have to regale me with some of your tales,” Doyle said.

                  “I can tonight, if you’d like,” John offered.

 

                  After dinner, Sherlock and John returned upstairs, Sherlock grabbing his coat, pacing with excitement. “I’ll be going to Belgravia on foot due to our tight funds, unless I can sneak a ride on some passing cart, so I might be a bit late.”

                  John pulled Sherlock into a kiss, glad for the privacy of their flat. “Be careful. I wish I had my service revolver.”

                  “Gross, Dads!” Hamish wrinkled his nose. “What if someone sees you?”

                  Sherlock turned to Hamish. “The only one who can see is _you._ The curtains are drawn, which is good, because nobody can see me do _this_ either.” He grabbed Hamish under his arms and hoisted him up to kiss his forehead.

                  Hamish laughed and hugged Sherlock around the neck. “Love you, Dad. Don’t get hurt.”

                  Sherlock set Hamish back down. “With any luck, I’ll have caught a criminal before the night is out,” he said, then tossed his scarf around his neck and flew out the door and into the dying London light.


	15. Chapter 15

                  While Sherlock was gone, John and Hamish returned to Mr. Doyle’s apartment, and John began recounting his first time meeting Sherlock, hastily changing a few modern details or leaving them out to let the author fill in the gaps.

                  He was enthralled, writing down everything, muttering things like, “Oh! Brilliant. Tell me again what you thought of him when you first met him?”

                  Doyle prodded John for more details until he had a fleshed-out story. “Dr. Watson, would you mind if I…took this and made a story out of it, narrated by you? I’d change up the details a bit for the narrative’s sake, but I’d try to preserve the spirit and the remarkable penchant your friend has for observations.”

                  “Yes, of course,” John said. So this was it—he was setting into motion a set of stories that would become world famous and long-lasting pieces of literature. It was a surreal thought, and he chuckled to himself.

                  “Pipe?” Doyle took a break from writing to pack a pipe of his own, offering a second to John.

                  “Ooh, no thank you. Bad for the health, you know,” John laughed, then immediately realized his anachronistic error.

                  “Really?” Doyle raised an eyebrow. “You’re the first doctor to tell me that tobacco has an _adverse_ effect! I’ve always heard it’s good for the constitution.

                  “Right,” John muttered, then continued filling in details about his and Sherlock’s first case. Eventually Hamish fell asleep by the fire and John carried him upstairs, tucking him into the large four-poster bed, then set about removing the sheets from the furniture and spreading then out on the rug for himself and Sherlock to sleep in. He was still up when Sherlock came home with a black eye.

                  “Jesus, what happened?” John rushed over to brush his shiner tentatively.  

                  Sherlock winced a bit, then grinned. “I got into a bit of a scuffle, but I got him—nothing is ever new, crimes are only recycled with small variants here or there. I talked to a few bystanders, did a bit of footwork. It was hardly difficult. Similar to the aluminium crutch case, actually. Also, I met a DI from the Yard—Gregson. And—“ From his coat Sherlock pulled out a weighty bag of coins, and John laughed in surprised delight. “There was a reward out for our Belgravia Slasher as well. It should tide us over until the money from your job comes in.”

                  John grabbed Sherlock’s neck to pull his head down until their lips were nearly touching. “You, sir, are brilliant.” He pulled Sherlock in for a kiss. Sherlock leaned into it, wrapping his arms around John, glad to finally have some alone time with him.

                  “We need some ice for that eye,” John murmured, before remembering where they were, and pulled away. “Dammit! No ice. This will take some getting used to.”

                  Sherlock sighed, running his hand down John’s arm. “Where’s Hamish?”

                  “In bed. There’s only one, so you and I will have to take the floor tonight.” He glanced at the thin sheets and the dying fire in their grate. “We’re going to be a bit cold, I’m afraid, unless you want to slip under the rug,” John said, laughing a little ruefully.

                  Sherlock smiled and pulled off John’s bowler hat, tossing it into the one of the chairs, then ran his hands down John’s chest, unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Somehow, I think we’ll manage,” Sherlock said.

                  John stood on his toes to kiss Sherlock, unbuttoning his coat as he did.

                  They made a sort of nest for themselves out of the sheets, and their overclothes, burrowing against each other for warmth on the hard floor.

                  John pressed his head to Sherlock’s chest, and the room was silent, except for the dying pops from the fire and the night wind at the window glass. John finally looked up at Sherlock, who was also still awake. “This is going to be an interesting life, isn’t it?”

                  Sherlock let his mind wander back to the activities of the day, and how it compared to a typical day back home. He winced at thinking of the 21st century as home, since he would never see it again, and subconsciously pulled John closer, glad that he wasn’t alone. He studied John, whose eyes were now fixed off into some vague spot in the distance.

                  “You’re thinking. About what?”

                  “I’m thinking that this whole thing will take some getting used to. And I’m thinking that neither of us has a change of clothes.”

                  “Tomorrow, John. We’ve enough to buy a few suitable things.”

                  “Mm. Like a bed?”

                  Sherlock frowned. With his calculations, and all of the things that they needed to go from having nothing to their name to a decent sort of life, they would have to stretch their money for quite a while. He’d considered the discomforts of living in a different time period, but he hadn’t thought about the inconvenience of being poor. He’d never suffered from lack of money, not seriously, anyway. He shifted uncomfortably on the floor, missing his bed, his wardrobe, his violin, and his ability to withdraw necessary bank notes from the corner Barclays whenever he needed it.

                  “At least with clothes, most folks don’t have very many sets of them,” John said. “At least that’s what it seems like. Makes sense: a good tailored suit’s expensive, relative to the time, I mine!”

                  “You and Hamish need to eat as well,” Sherlock pointed out. “And there’s the matter of paying for Hamish’s school, whenever we find a suitable one.”

                  “You need to eat too, Sherlock.” John ran a hand along Sherlock’s ribcage.

                  “I ate tonight. I’ll be good for a few days.”

                  John rolled his eyes, twining his feet with Sherlock’s to keep warm. “You know very well the digestive system doesn’t work like that. Food doesn’t sit in the stomach for days, slowly being eaten away.”

                  Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Good night, John.”

 

                  Over the next few weeks, John began his work at the hospital and Sherlock started reading the newspapers voraciously, scanning for crimes.  He spent his time walking the streets, familiarizing himself with old London, its homeless, its wealthy, the tradesmen and merchants and pubs and opium dens and gentlemen’s clubs and cabarets. One day John came home in a new waistcoat and jacket and some good news. He’d found a school that might accept Hamish. The annual fee was steep, but there were cases where tuition could be waived if the pupil was bright enough. John assumed Hamish wouldn’t have the slightest difficulty proving himself worthy.

                  Hamish came around to the idea when he learned that the school, despite being a boarding school, was in London, and that he could come home on weekends.

                  Sherlock had moved one of the chairs near the fireplace, precisely where his former chair sat. He was sitting in it now, scanning the paper for any sort of crime. Other than a recurring, frustrating dead-end involving an enigmatic professor, there wasn’t anything exciting so far. “New waistcoat,” he remarked, looking up at John. He hadn’t spent much time with John during the past few days, since they’d both been busy. “Any other news?”

                  “I think Arthur’s a bit in love with you. Every time I pass his door he wants to hear about a new case.”

                  “Arthur Conan Doyle?” Sherlock said with a hint of a sneer. “Is that what you do in the evening? Peddle your tales to him?”

                  “It’s a bit like blogging, talking to him,” John said. Doyle had written up about ten of Sherlock’s cases so far. John had read them over, and even though the author had changed a great number of details, he found them very entertaining. It was fun reading about Sherlock in a story as if he was some sort of hero. Doyle had recently been talking about trying to publish in the Strand.

                  “I’m glad _you’re_ taking care of him. I can’t be bothered to regale him with one of my cases every time I walk out the door,” Sherlock said bitterly. “There’s been nothing since the Belgravia Slasher. I’m going mad sitting in here day after day without anything to do. No violin, no books, no equipment, no _cases_. This century’s hateful. My brain is curdling with boredom as we speak.”

                  John heaved a sigh, almost too annoyed to show Sherlock his surprise. He took a deep breath, then finally said, “I bought you something…”

                  Sherlock looked up, frowning up at him. “That’s ridiculous, John, I don’t need anything, and we haven’t the money for anything.”

                  John pulled his hands from behind his coat, revealing a black case. “I don’t know much about violins, but…I think it’s a good one.”

                  Sherlock’s mouth dropped open at the sight of the violin case, lost for words, then sprung from his chair, accepting the case from John. He set the case on his chair to carefully open it. It was a beautiful instrument. Sherlock ran his fingers along the taut strings and the varnished wood before gently picking it up. “John…how did you…?”

                  “I’ve been saving up,” John said, glowing with pride as he watched Sherlock pull out the bow. Sherlock looked down its length before tightening it and running the rosin over the  horsehairs before bringing the violin to his shoulder and lovingly drawing out a few notes, his eyes closed.

                  He set the violin down and looked at John with a gratitude he couldn’t express. “Thank you,” he said, leaning down to kiss John.

                  “Oh, _gross_ ,” Hamish said from his chair.

                  “If you don’t want to watch, and I sincerely hope you don’t, I suggest you read the paper,” Sherlock murmured. “Not that there are any worthwhile crimes to read about,” he muttered.

                  John rolled his eyes. “There are loads of crimes out there. Every day we get people into the hospital, bloodied up from muggers, and I’m always seeing pickpockets. Just yesterday a bank was robbed! Or are all of those too _obvious_ for you?”

                  “They’re obvious enough for the _police_ to solve,” Sherlock said. “I need something that the police can’t figure out. I need to create a reputation for being smarter than them so they’ll start calling me in to consult on cases.” The thing Sherlock missed the most from the 21st century was the reputation he’d built up over the years. It had taken a long time building up the connections with the Yard, getting the privilege to enter crime scenes, to give his opinions and look at evidence. It was driving him mad, being a nobody in the detective world.

                  That slowly began to change, however. As John worked any shift he could take at the hospital, Sherlock enrolled Hamish in school and spent his days helping with petty crimes that gave the police moderate trouble. They were crimes so petty that he wouldn’t have bothered with them in his old life, but he had to build a reputation somehow. It helped somewhat. Some police began accepting Sherlock when he popped round to Scotland Yard to offer advice, since they were quickly catching on that he was always right.

                  Then came “A Study in Scarlet,” changed dramatically from John’s original story—“But seriously, where did the Mormons come from?”, John had asked incredulously when he’d read it—and Sherlock found himself with a steady stream of clientele coming directly to Baker Street for his help in an assortment of crimes, puzzles, and mysteries.

                  Over the months, as John’s and Sherlock’s earnings added up, they were able to furnish the flat comfortably, buying a bed for Hamish when he came home on weekends, clothes for themselves so they no longer stuck out like sore thumbs, and Mary’s housekeeping services. Mary was the most welcome addition, as they were both utterly lost in the foreign, antiquated kitchen. They’d been mostly living off street vendors’ food, and both men had lost weight.

                  It seemed to both John and Sherlock that their lives were finding a rhythm. 1895 Baker Street was beginning to feel like home, and Mary and Arthur were beginning to feel like friends. Their steady comfort was interrupted, however, when Sherlock was on the case one foggy day with Hamish and came face-to-face with a bright blue police box parked on the street corner.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. The TARDIS, _here_?

            “That’s the Doctor’s! He’s here, he must be!” Hamish said, hopping up and down with excitement.

            Sherlock had already strode over to the box and was pounding with all of his might on the door. “ _Doctor!_ ” he yelled, ignoring the curious looks and glares from the Victorian passers-by.

            “I can’t believe it! He’s here, he’s really here!” Hamish was practically bursting with glee.

            Sherlock was far from gleeful at facing the Doctor again—all of his past run-ins seemed to end up with enormous upheavals—but he was dying for answers to questions only the Doctor could give him.

            “ _Doctor, if you’re in there, open up immediately!”_ he yelled.

            “Why, Sherlock Holmes!” The jovial voice came from behind him. Sherlock whirled around to see the Doctor grinning at him. He was dressed as he was before, in his antiquated bowtie, ridiculous suspenders, and too-short trousers. The only thing that was different was the top hat perched on his head. “Look at you! I just popped out to have a look, see if you were getting on all right.”

            “Would you care if I wasn’t?” Sherlock asked coldly. “You didn’t have a problem displacing John, Hamish and I.”

            “Hamish? HAMISH!” the Doctor seemed to see Hamish for the first time, and stared down at him in shock.

            “Doctor! I’m so glad to see you! I’ve missed you very very much! 1895 is brilliant! The schools are so funny, and my dads wear hats _all the time_ now. Science equipment is rubbish, though.”

            “But you’re—you found—“ The Doctor took a step back, scratching his head, looking Hamish over. “How old are you, Hamish?”

            The young boy leaned in confidentially towards Sherlock. “He always forgets my age.”

            “Not forget, I just don’t see you in order…apparently,” the Doctor said, perplexed.

            “I’m 9 and a half!” Hamish laughed. “Same as when I saw you at Craig and Sophie’s!”

            “Craig and Sophie? You lived with them?” The Doctor knelt on the cobblestones to look Hamish over, touching his shoulder.

            “You don’t _remember_?” Sherlock frowned, then rolled his eyes. “Oh, wait, let me guess. For _you_ it hasn’t happened yet, because your timeline is so very _special._ ”

            The Doctor grinned, ignoring Sherlock’s spiteful tone. “See, there’s a reason you’re known as the greatest detective of all time.”           

            Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “Of all _time_?” He couldn’t help but feel a bit pleased.

            “Doctor, don’t say things like that, or his head will get too big for the flat. That’s what Dad says all the time.”

            Sherlock glared down at Hamish and the Doctor grinned, leaning against the door of the TARDIS.

            “Speaking of your Dad, Hamish, I think we deserve some answers…don’t we, Doctor? The main one being, how did John and I come to have a _nine year old child_ we weren’t aware of?”

            The Doctor smiled and snapped his fingers, and the door of the TARDIS swung open on its own. He leaned with it and half-fell inside. “Come on, then.”

 

            The Doctor led Sherlock and Hamish through the console room and down an oddly-shaped corridor, then another, and another. Sherlock lost count of the rooms they passed and the number of turns, some off them not left and right but up and down, their center of gravity switching to the point where Sherlock felt dizzily disorientated.

            Once they were situated in a sitting room which seemed designed solely for housing a myriad of sofas, settees, divans and couches from all different eras, Sherlock was able to focus back on the most important question, the one that had been bothering him since he’d first heard Hamish’s name.

            “How was this possible? He’s nine and a half and John and I have only known each other for two years. Even taking time travel into account, it’s simply _not possible_ for two men to have a child. And neither of us would have willingly elected for having a child at any rate.”

            Hamish’s eyes widened with hurt. “You didn’t…you don’t want me?”

            Sherlock looked over at Hamish, realizing too late that his words had a cutting effect he didn’t intend. “That’s not what I meant, Hamish. You were a surprise to both of us, but you were…needed.” He frowned, but it was the exact word. “Sometimes…you get what you need before you realize it was what you wanted.”

            “Well said,” the Doctor said with admiration, and Hamish looked up at his Dad with grateful eyes, leaning in on the upholstered sofa to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s middle.

            “So. Explain,” Sherlock said, looking across at the Time Lord with a raised eyebrow.

            The Doctor sat back. “When I found you in the 21st century, I tried everything I could to avoid sending you back to 1895, uprooting you from your life. It seemed too messy—there were so many things that could have gone wrong. And you and John Watson were flourishing. When I heard that Sherlock Holmes was living in the 21st century, I had assumed you and Dr. Watson both would be out of place, clearly not for that time. That was not the case.”

            Sherlock raised his chin, intrigued. His eyebrows went up as the Doctor explained his attempt to fix the universal glitch without displacing Sherlock and John.

            On their first meeting, the Doctor said, he had lifted a hair off Sherlock’s coat and had attempted to create a DNA replication in the TARDIS.

            “You tried to _clone_ me?” Sherlock asked. He didn’t know whether to be disgusted or proud.

            “It would have created a way out for you. It would allow you to maintain your life in modern London and it would have closed the loophole, since the _other_ you would grow up in Victorian London as the universe destined.”

            “You do enjoy playing with cosmic forces, don’t you?”

            “Yes, that’s pretty much in the job description.”

            “Hamish isn’t my clone, though.” Even now, Hamish was resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists, his brow furrowed in a perfect impression of John.

            “No, he most certainly isn’t! When I replicated your DNA, some of Watson’s was latched onto it—a particle of skin, perhaps, or—saliva,” the Doctor said, a trace of a smile on his face. “What _do_ you two do when you’re not on the case?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, and the Doctor hastily held up his hand, glancing at Hamish. “No, wait, don’t tell me.”

            “It’s hardly your business anyway,” Sherlock muttered.

            “Oooh, certain academics would be high-fiving right now if they heard that,” the Doctor grinned. “At any rate, what was created was not a clone of _you,_ but a clone combining the DNA of both you and Watson. This created, essentially, well…a child. Of sorts.”

            “I was…a mistake?” Hamish asked.

            “Hamish, you should know very well that some of biggest scientific breakthroughs were mistakes. You’re the best mistake that I’ve ever inherited.” He rested a hand on his son’s shoulder.

            Hamish looked like he could melt with happiness, and pressed his cheek against his father’s arm.

            “So you really _were_ trying to help us,” Sherlock confirmed, frowning at the Doctor.

            “Oh, Sherlock Holmes. Did you honestly think I was gleefully sending you back into the past, wrenching you from the life you knew and loved because it _pleased_ me? I had to save the universe, but I wasn’t about to give up on saving _you_ as well.”

            Sherlock looked at the Doctor with a new respect. He understood entirely why the Doctor hadn’t told him and John about the plan; he would have done the same. No sense getting someone’s hopes up if there was a chance it could fail. Sherlock looked down at Hamish, who was still clinging to him. He would hardly consider Hamish any sort of failure, however.

            “When was the last time you saw me, Doctor?” Hamish asked.

            “When you were just a new little thing in my lab,” the Doctor said. “I’ve just popped back from dropping you off with Wilfred Noble.”

            “Grandpa Wilfred!” Hamish said. “I still visit him! And Aunt Donna—she’s so funny. Then after that I went to live with the Williams’.”

            “The Ponds!” the Doctor exclaimed. “So I send you off to live with them, too? Oh, brilliant. How old were you? No, wait, don’t tell me—I imagine things will fall into place now that you’re settled in with Wilf. Blimey, he didn’t even recognize me when I dropped you off. I had some explaining to do. Did you know, Hamish, he was there with I died for the 9th time?”

            Hamish shook his head excitedly and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “The 9th time?”

            “Regenerated, really, not _died._ I never did like to be over-dramatic.” The Doctor frowned, thinking. “Well, that’s not entirely true…” He muttered, as if to himself, “Maybe I should get a long, dramatic coat again. You certainly pull it off, Sherlock.”

            Sherlock frowned at him again, but he felt somewhat sated knowing how Hamish came into existence, even if the science of it seemed dodgy. “How did you do it? Replicate our DNA?” Sherlock asked.

            “Ohh, there are some things humans aren’t ready for. Spoilers, to quote a friend of mine.” The Doctor smiled and stood up, and Sherlock rose to join him, forcing himself to be satisfied with this non-answer. The three began walking back towards the console room.

            “I take it that the pocket universe has closed up tidily?” Sherlock asked. “If John and I came here for nothing—“

            “You saved the universe, Sherlock. I hope that doesn’t inflate your head too much.” The Doctor tousled Hamish’s hair.

            Once they were at the TARDIS door, Hamish turned to the Doctor. “Will I ever see you again?”

            “I can’t answer that, Hamish. I know I’ll be seeing _you._ I imagine you’re quite the precocious five-year-old.”

            Hamish’s eyes welled with tears and he hugged the Doctor tightly. “I’ll miss you, if I don’t ever see you.”

            The Doctor held Hamish. “Well, lucky for you,” he murmured in Hamish’s ear, then looked up at Sherlock. “You have two fantastic dads who will look after you now.”

            Hamish nodded tearily, then finally pulled away, wiping his eyes.

            “Good luck, Sherlock!” the Doctor grinned. “I’ll cross my fingers that a brilliant head-scratcher comes your way!”

            Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at that. “Tell the serial killers to bring their best game. And Doctor…thank you.”

           

            Sherlock and Hamish watched the blue box whir and fade from the empty street corner. They returned home to John, who had gotten home from the hospital and was in his chair with a newspaper.

            “Dad. You’ll never guess what we found out,” Hamish grinned, crawling onto his Dad’s lap.

            “Oh?” John turned to look at Sherlock, eyes raised and a smile cocked.

            Sherlock hung up his top hat and pulled off his scarf. It had begun to snow outside, flurries that danced rather than settling on the ground, the first concrete sign that winter was on its way.

            The small, strange family gathered together in front of the crackling fire as Hamish recounted his unusual history and creation, Sherlock leaning over John’s chair to wrap his arms around his shoulders from behind, Hamish nestled in his lap.

            “Right,” John laughed when Hamish was done and he had let it all sink it. John looked up and back at Sherlock. “Anything else unusual happen today?”

            “Hamish and I stopped a robbery, nothing too exciting. The criminal was too obvious, but we were in the neighborhood. It’s good to be home.”

            John gave his son’s shoulder a squeeze. His eyes wandered from Sherlock to the fire in the grate and the snow out the window. “Yes,” he agreed. “It’s good to be home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOORAY IT'S COMPLETE!! Let me know what you thought! If you liked this, be sure to check out the sequel, Right Hand Man, which I'll start posting soon. Read it to find out what happens when Moriarty gets all up in 1895...


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